"A ’lectric torch—one that shines. Polly’s got one"—Polly was the little friend she had been visiting—"I want one like Polly’s." "All right. A ’lectric torch." "I’m going to get one, Annie," she cried triumphantly to the nurse; "Popsy’s going to send me one." Then turning back to her father, "Take me to the station with you?" Willitts and the chauffeur exchanged a glance. The nurse made a quick forward movement, suddenly gently authoritative: "No, no, darling. You can’t drive now. It’s time to go in and take jour rest." Bébita looked mutinous, but her father, drawing her to him and kissing her, rose: "I can’t honey-bun. I’m in a hurry and there wouldn’t be any fun just driving down to the village and back. You run along with Annie now and as soon as I get to town I’ll buy you the torch and send it." The nurse mounted the steps, took the child’s hand, and together they stood watching Chapman as he got in. Willitts took the seat beside the chauffeur, adroitly disposing his legs among a pile of suitcases, golf bags, umbrellas and walking sticks. As the car started Chapman looked back at his daughter. She was regarding him with the intent, grave interest, a little wistful, with which children watch a departure. At the sight of his face, she smiled, pranced a little, and called: "Good-by, Popsy dear. Don’t forget the torch. Come back soon," and waved her free hand. Chapman gave an answering wave and the big car rolled off with a cool crackle of gravel. The village—the spotless, prosperous village of Berkeley enriched by the great estates about it—was a half mile from Grasslands’ wrought-iron gates. The road passed through woods, opening here and there to afford glimpses of emerald lawns backed by large houses, with the slope of awnings above their balconies. On either side of this highway ran a shady path, worn hard by the feet of pedestrians and the wheels of bicycles.