“Now listen,”—they were drawing near the house—“Mrs. Bruce’ll act sick when you go in. I don’t mean she’s actin’, but she don’t like things to go the way she hasn’t planned ’em; and she’s a real dependent little lady, and you and Mr. Irving must keep her as happy as a lark while I’m gone. I’ve got to get off early in the mornin’, and I may not get a chance to see him alone at all; so you tell him I’m real sorry, and I’ll hurry back, and you take her with you everywhere, and look out for her and—and I’m goin’ around this back way. She’s right in the livin’-room. You’ll find her.” Betsy disappeared with guilty haste, and Robert, smiling to himself and whistling softly, mounted the steps. “Once there was a book,” he thought, “named ‘Pink and White Tyranny.’ Madama’s an anachronism. She belongs in it.” He presented himself cap in hand at the door of the room where Mrs. Bruce lay motionless on a thickly pillowed divan. “Any admittance?” he asked. The sufferer stirred. “Is that you, Nixie?” she returned faintly. He advanced to the divan. “Dear me, what’s this? You were so fit this morning.” “Oh, I’ve been quite upset.” “You look it. Absolutely knocked down. Nothing serious, I hope?” “Where’s Irving?” “Mending a sail with Captain Salter. They were so disrespectful to me that I came home.” “I’m very poor company, I’m afraid,” said the hostess languidly. “But at least you appreciate me, Mrs. Bruce. You don’t hurt my feelings every second word you utter. Mayn’t I sit here by you,”—the speaker took a chair close to the divan,—“and rub your head, perhaps? My mother will tell you I’m a cracker-jack at it.” Mrs. Bruce gave an inarticulate exclamation of dissent. “I should expect you to rub my hair off,” she exclaimed faintly. “It doesn’t look like that kind,” returned Robert innocently. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel his, brightly curious, fixed upon her coiffure. “You make me nervous, Nixie. Would you mind taking a book?” “A thousand pardons, dear hostess! Of course I will. I did just want to ask your advice about the car, though.” “What car?” Mrs. Bruce’s eyes opened. “Ours. I think when mother gets through dressing Miss Maynard, we’d better have it here. Don’t you?” “The roads are excellent,” replied the prostrate one. “Of course it’s Uncle Henry’s car, but it’s all in the family.” “We haven’t one, just now,” said Mrs. Bruce. “We sold it when we went to Europe; and Irving is such a merman we thought we wouldn’t do anything about a new one till we went back to town.” “I suppose you have an electric for yourself,” said Robert. “I’m going to have one as soon as we get back. I’ve always thought I was too timid to drive it, but of late I’ve come to feel that I don’t like to be the only woman that hasn’t one.”