"Now come and rest until the last minute," urged Shirley. "And don’t worry. Mrs. Arlo Stevenson won’t have a thing to criticise--except the conversation." An hour afterward, Murray, letting himself in with his latch-key, found Shirley awaiting him inside the door. "Don’t say a word," she whispered. "Just walk straight past the dining-room without looking in. Mother ’s entertaining Mrs. Stevenson at luncheon, you know, and it’s a very solemn occasion." Wondering, Murray, hat in hand, followed his sister as she walked demurely by the wide entrance to the dining-room, from within which he could hear a subdued murmur of voices. But once past, she hurried him, by a circuitous route, to a narrow hallway at the back of the house, which led to the kitchen. Here she stationed him, and bade him push the door open a cautious crack and peep within. He obeyed her. Shirley stood behind him, alive with anticipation, while she watched her brother’s shoulders. Shirley could not see his face, but she heard his subdued exclamation as he gazed at the scene within. She knew what it was. The luncheon had reached the salad course. Jane was arranging plates picturesque with an enticing combination of ingredients, parti-coloured, crisp and cool. Her fair arms were bared to the elbow, her cheeks were flushed. At her right hand Mary was ready with assistance, her eyes respectfully studying the arrangement--not of the salad, but of her young mistress’s hair, which was certainly worth studying for its effective simplicity. The maid could never hope to match that daintiness of arrangement with her own ash-coloured locks, but she meant to try. Murray turned about at last. "Well, by Jove!" he exploded, softly. "How does this come about?" Shirley noiselessly closed the door and explained in a whisper. Murray’s eyes grew eloquent as he listened. "The little trump!" was his comment. "I wish I could stay till she’s finished. I suppose it would n’t do to call her out now?" "Mercy, no! You might upset her. So far I don’t think the least thing has gone wrong." "What possessed mother to put the thing through, anyhow? Jane ought to be in there with the others." "It was something about entertaining Mrs. Arlo Stevenson. Mother felt it must be done, though the heavens fell. They nearly did fall, till Jane came under and held them up. As for Jane’s being at the table--she did n’t want to be there. And Olive would n’t be, without her, so there’s nothing noticeable. They ’re all women of mother ’s age--on some special board of charities, or something like that, that makes them congenial." "Its making them congenial does n’t necessarily follow, unfortunately. So Olive stayed out, did she? That’s one count for Olive. Why is n’t she helping Jane, though?"