Miss Maitland said she would and that it was very kind of Mr. Ferguson to ask her. Mr. and Mrs. Janney exchanged a gratified glance; they were much attached to the Secretary and felt that their lordly circle ignored her existence more than was necessary or kindly. Suzanne said nothing, but the edges of her small upper teeth set close on her under lip, and her nostrils quivered with a deep-drawn breath. Mrs. Janney gave orders for messages of acceptance to be sent, then sank into a chair, remarking to her husband: "I’m glad you’ll go to the Delavalles. It’s to be a large dinner. I’ll wear my emeralds." To which Mr. Janney murmured: "By all means, my dear. The Delavalles will like to see them." Mrs. Janney’s emeralds were famous; they had once belonged to Maria Theresa. As old Sam thought of them he smiled, for he knew why his wife had decided to wear them. In her climbing days, before her marriage to him had secured her position, the Delavalles had snubbed her. Now she was going to snub them, not in any obvious, vulgar way, but finely as was her wont, with the assistance of himself and Maria Theresa. The motor came into view gliding up the long drive and the waiting group roused into expectant animation. Mr. Janney rose, kicking his trouser legs into shape, Miss Maitland gathered up the papers, and Mrs. Janney went to the top of the steps. In the tonneau, her body encircled by Annie’s restraining arm, Bébita stood, waving an electric torch and caroling joyfully: "It’s come—it’s come. It was sent to me, in a box, with my name on it." She leaped out, rushing up the steps to display her treasure, Annie following with the mail. There was quite a bunch of it which Mrs. Janney distributed—several for Sam, a pile for herself, one for Suzanne and one for Miss Maitland. They settled down to it amid a crackling of torn envelopes, Bébita darting from one to the other. She tried her mother first: "Mummy, look. You just press this and the light comes out at the other end." Suzanne’s eyes on her letter did not lift, and Bébita laid a soft little hand on the tinted cheek: "Mummy, do _please_ look." Suzanne pushed the hand away with an angry movement. "Let me alone, Bébita," she said sharply and, getting up, thrust the child out of her way and went into the house. For a moment Bébita was astonished. Her mother, who was so often cross to other people, was rarely so to her. But the torch was too enthralling for any other subject to occupy her thoughts and she turned to her grandfather, reading a business communication held out in front of his nose for he had on the wrong glasses. She crowded in under his arm and sparked the torch at him waiting to see his delighted surprise. But he only drew her close, kissed her cheek and murmured without moving his eyes: "Yes, darling. It’s wonderful." That was not what she wanted so she tried her grandmother: "Gran, _do_ look at my torch."