On one of the cushioned benches against the wall in the most decorative of the dining-rooms of the up-stairs suite, a little girl was lying stark against the brilliant blue of the upholstery. She was a child of some seven or eight, lightly built and delicate of features and dressed all in black. Her eyes were closed, but the long lashes emphasizing the shadows in which they were set, prepared you for the revelation of them. Nancy understood that they were Collier Pratt's eyes, and that they would open presently, and look wonderingly up at her. She recognized the presence of Dr. Sunderland, of Michael and several of the waitresses, and a flighty woman in blue taffeta--an ubiquitous patron,--but she made her way past them at once, and sank on her knees before the prostrate child. "It's nothing very serious, Miss Martin," the young surgeon reassured her, "delicate children of this type are likely to have these seizures. It's not exactly a fainting fit. It belongs rather to the family of hysteria." "Wasn't it the peaches?" Nancy asked fearfully. "They--they had a little brandy in them." "They may have been a contributing cause," Dr. Sunderland acknowledged, "but the child's condition is primarily responsible. Let her alone until she rouses,--then give her hot water with a pinch of soda in it at fifteen-minute intervals. Keep her feet hot and her head cold and don't try to move her until after dark, when it's cooler." "All right," Nancy said, "I'll take care of her." "Here comes her poor father, now," the lady in taffeta announced with the dramatic commiseration of the self-invited auditor. "He thought an iced towel on her head might make her feel better. Is the dear little thing an orphan--I mean a half orphan?" The assembled company seeming disinclined to respond, she repeated her inquiry to Collier Pratt himself, as with the susceptive grace that characterized all his movements, he swung the compress he was carrying sharply to and fro to preserve its temperature in transit. "Is the poor little thing a half orphan?" "The poor little thing is nine-tenths orphan, madam," said Collier Pratt, "that is--the only creature to whom she can turn for protection is the apology for a parent that you see before you. Would you mind stepping aside and giving me a little more room to work in?" "Not at all." Irony was wasted on the indomitable sympathizer in blue. "Hasn't she really anybody but you to take care of her?" Collier Pratt arranged the towel precisely in position over the little girl's forehead, smoothing with careful fingers the cloud of dusky hair that fell about her face. "She has not," he answered with some savagery. "Hasn't she any women friends or relatives that would be willing to take charge of her?" "No, madam."