"Oh, a girl abroad never would dare to do such a thing," May put in naïvely. "But you thought that in America a girl might do what she pleases. Why, do you mean to tell me that you didn't understand perfectly well that you had no business to write to a man that you don't know? I don't believe any such nonsense." May blushed very much, and hung her head. "But I wanted so much to know him," she murmured almost inaudibly. Mrs. Harbinger regarded her a moment with the expression of a mother who has reached that stage of exasperation which is next halting-place before castigation. Then she turned and walked vehemently up the drawing-room and back, a quick sprint which seemed to have very little effect in cooling her indignation. "How long has this nonsense been going on?" she demanded, with a new sternness in her voice. "For--for six weeks," answered May tearfully. Then she lifted her swimming eyes in pitiful appeal, and proffered a plea for mercy. "Of course I didn't use my own name." "Five or six weeks!" cried Mrs. Harbinger, throwing up her hands. "But at first we didn't write more than once or twice a week." The other stared as if May were exploding a succession of torpedoes under her very nose. "But--but," she stammered, apparently fairly out of breath with amazement, "how often do you write now?" May sprang up in her turn. She faced her mentor with the truly virtuous indignation of a girl who has been proved to be in the wrong. "I shan't tell you another word!" she declared. Mrs. Harbinger seized her by the shoulders, and fairly pounced upon her in the swoop of her words. "How often do you write now?" she repeated. "Tell me before I shake you!" The brief defiance of May vanished like the flare of a match in a wind-storm. "Every day," she answered in a voice hardly audible. "Every day!" echoed the other in a tone of horror. Her look expressed that utter consternation which is beyond any recognition of sin, but is aroused only by the most flagrant breach of social propriety. Again the culprit put in what was evidently a prayer for pity, couched in a form suggested by instinctive feminine cunning. "Oh, Mrs. Harbinger, if you only knew what beautiful letters he writes!" "What do I care for his beautiful letters? What did you want to drag me into this mess for? Now I shall have to do something." "Oh, no, no, Mrs. Harbinger!" cried May, clasping her hands. "Don't do anything. You won't have to do anything. I had to tell you when he is coming here." Mrs. Harbinger stared at the girl with the mien of one who is convinced that somebody's wits are hopelessly gone, and is uncertain whether they are those of herself or of her friend. "Coming here?" she repeated helplessly. "When?" "This afternoon. I am really going to meet him!" May ran on, flashing instantly from depression into smiles and animation. "Oh, I am so excited!"