“Aren’t you the dearest of griefs?” Although he laughed at the guile with which she had thanked him for his concession, he finished the warning sternly. “See you make your story snappy to-night. Don’t let these days of grace--or disgrace--make you as profuse of unessential details as you’ve been chary of the essentials past nights. If you do, you’ll find yourself talking against time with a vengeance. A vengeance--get that?” Yes, she assured him, her voice a minor chord. And she would try to make it “snappy.” A weakness for her? As compared with the strength he was showing to bend or break her to his will, that dread now seemed a hope. CHAPTER XI In the long moment during which Mrs. Cabot leveled her astonished stare upon the applicant as governess to her son, the girl did not breathe. When direct demand was made of her she could not speak. “Tell me, is coming here your own idea? Or did my husband----?” The smart vision in black and white interrupted herself by an over-shoulder invitation. “Come in, Henri. Be moved to admiration of my John. Even you will concede that he is improving.” To the personage in blue-gray uniform who clattered at her side, she added: “You have the privilege of viewing at close range the famed Dolores Trent.” “Ah, the mademoiselle which Meestaire Cabot have rescue?” inquired the French cavalry officer. “The same. Is there anything like rescuing a lady, my dear d’Elie, to excite a man’s interest in her? He is pleased with her because pleased with himself--so pleased that he wants to keep right on rescuing her. I might have known that John would locate the disappearing heroine of his hero act sooner or later. But how naïvely American to try to make a convenience of his own home!” In Dolores’ silence Mrs. Morrison denied the charge. “Miss Trent was sent here through Madame Sheehan’s agency, to which I frequently apply. Up to the moment you came in just now, Mrs. Cabot, she thought me the mother of the child in need of a governess. I assure you that Mr. Cabot had nothing to do with her application.” An arpeggio of light laughter, accompanied by a bass chord, greeted this defense. “No use talking, she’s _good_, isn’t she?” Mrs. Cabot asked her escort, before turning directly to Dolores. “But I fear, Miss Trent, that you’re not quite good enough. A mother owes something to her child, even though a father thinks that he does not. I thank you for coming. You have succeeded better than our parson friend’s lynx in giving me a rare sensation--that of surprise. I wish you a very good morning.” Dolores rose; heard a quiet voice making her reply. “And I am sorry that I came. I shouldn’t have done so had I understood. I hope you will believe Mrs. Morrison, if not me, for Mr. Cabot’s sake. Good morning.” On her way to the entrance, the purport of a rapid exchange in French between him named as d’Elie and Mrs. Cabot was forced upon her realization.