After a long silence: “When did you get here, Mrs. Flame?” inquired Oliver briskly. “Last night. Paul met me in Hopkinsville. I came direct from New York. My home is in New York City, you know. I’ve never been in Rumley before. We were living in Indianapolis when I was married. That was seven years ago. Seems seven hundred. Now you know almost all there is to know about me.” Oliver was staring straight ahead. He was wondering if “Aunt Josephine” could still turn “cart wheels,” and make up funny songs, and dance on the tips of her toes. Hardly. She must be over fifty. Then he came out of his momentary abstraction and politely asked Mrs. Flame when she had arrived in Rumley. “I mean,” he stammered, “how long do you expect to be here?” “Ten days, or two weeks at the longest,” she replied. “I am joining a house party at Harbor Point.” “Good!” he exclaimed, and then as she looked at him quickly: “I mean, I’m glad you’re going to be here that long. By George, this will make a thundering difference in the lives of Mr. Sage and Jane. Is—is Jane excited, Doc?” “Nothing like the old man. He keeps saying over and over again, with a smile that won’t come off, that if you pray long enough and hard enough, you’ll get your wish, or something like that.” “What does he want to see me about?” “Search me. Ouch! Excuse me, Sylvia. I didn’t see it.” “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m used to hard knocks,” gasped the young woman. Oliver turned his head to look at her. She was very pretty and very smart looking in the little brown hat that sat jauntily upon her yellow, beautifully coifed hair. Very trig, too. About thirty-two or-three, he hazarded. Fine eyes—a trifle pained at present, but fine, just the same. He found himself wondering if Jane was as pretty as Lansing’s sister—and suddenly it occurred to him that Jane had her “lashed to the mast”—absolutely! The road got better. “Your ears must have burned last night, Mr. Baxter,” she said. He started guiltily. “How—what for?” he stammered. “Old Paul here did nothing but talk about you all the way down from Hopkinsville. I don’t see how you’ve done it. He’s usually quite a snob, you know. I’ve never known him to like anybody but himself before. You must be either superlatively good or superlatively bad. Which is it?” “Depends entirely on which you prefer, Mrs. Flame,” said Oliver coolly. “I guess that’ll hold you, Syl,” cried Lansing. Oliver groaned inwardly. It was getting more difficult every minute to hate the fellow. CHAPTER XV THE THIRD FAIR LADY Two old men were crossing Maple Street as Lansing swung into it from the dirt road. They quickened their steps and from the safety of the sidewalk glanced at the occupants of the car. “Wasn’t that Oliver October?” demanded Mr. Sikes, pursuing the car with an outraged gaze.