“I thought I heard voices and wondered if this could be possible.” Her upper lip whitened over the mouse teeth as she directly addressed Dr. Shayle. “Don’t you know that I am waiting for my treatment?” The color of the young man’s hair blended into his forehead and cheeks. He got to his feet. “Miss Trent and I have had quite a talk.” Although obviously nervous, he forced his coaxing smile. “We’ve discussed most of the important questions of the day. Not that we’ve got anything settled at the present moment. But we’ve exercised our minds and so have made progress, even if the world----” “If you _only_ wouldn’t say ‘at the present moment’!” Catherine snapped. With not a second glance at the governess, but a peremptory gesture to her physician, she turned back to the stairs. Shayle, his athletic shoulders squaring, followed her. “You needn’t take it out on me because I’m not a clever talker,” Dolores heard him say to Catherine as, his hand at her elbow, he assisted her in the descent “My stupidity ain’t inherited. It’s a gift.” At a sound Dolores turned to see Jack looking on from his door. His eyes were wide and grave--in expression much like his father’s. His head slanted exactly as the elder John held his. With his laboriously acquired, makeshift walk, he crossed the balcony to a stop before her. “Something said to me----” he began; paused to think; continued: “I guess I mean that myself said to myself I’d best come out and ’tend to you. Maybe I’m foolish to worry about you,’Lores, and yet----” “And yet,” she supplied, serious as he, “maybe you’re not. Look after me, Jack. I need you to, for you are my safest friend.” She took comfort in his elderly assurances; tried to throw off the prescience that weighed on her at thought of Catherine’s outraged look. But she was afraid. Look high, look low, she was afraid. CHAPTER XIII As proved by developments of the next day, Dolores need not have feared that Mrs. Cabot would blame her for the interest of the uniquely attractive young osteopath. Evidently she was of too sweet a nature for that. During the after-luncheon respite, when the girl sat reading in her room to avoid a possible repetition of yesterday’s telepathic tête-à-tête, madame sought her in an exceptionally gracious mood. She was followed by her maid, who bore a long black-and-white striped box. “Lay it on the bed, Annette.” Having dismissed the reluctant Frenchwoman, she turned to Dolores with a manner of affectionate anticipation. “I saw it yesterday at Yungman’s _revue_,” she announced. “As it stayed on my imagination over night, I sent Annette this morning to buy it.” “It?” Dolores tried to feel on faith something of Mrs. Cabot’s pleasurable excitement. “It’s from _Angèle_, the colors copied from an overcast sunset, mostly gray, with just a suggestion through the mists of lavender and rose. And it’s built of the clingingest stuff. I _hope_ you’ll like it.” “I am sure I shall. All your things are beautiful.”