“Why--just a friend,” she answered, wondering if that were the best thing to say. “Oh!” there was a long and contemplative pause at the other end. “Well, could you give Mr. Gordon a message when he comes in?” “Why certainly, I think so. Who is this?” “Miss Bentley. Julia Bentley. He’ll know,” replied the imperious one eagerly now. “And tell him please that he is expected here to dinner to-night. We need him to complete the number, and he simply mustn’t fail me. I’ll excuse him for going off in such a rush if he comes early and tells me all about it. Now you won’t forget, will you? You got the name, Bentley, did you? B, E, N, T, L, E, Y, you know. And you’ll tell him the minute he comes in?” “Yes.” “Thank you! What did you say your name was?” But Celia had hung up. Somehow the message annoyed her, she could not tell why. She wished she had not answered the ’phone. Whoever Mr. Cyril Gordon was what should she do if he should suddenly appear? And as for this imperious lady and her message she hoped she would never have to deliver it. On second thought why not write it and leave it on his desk with the pile of letters? She would do it. It would serve to pass away a few of these dreadful minutes that lagged so distressfully. She sat down and wrote: “Miss Bentley wishes Mr. Gordon to dine with her this evening. She will pardon his running away the other day if he will come early.” She laid it beside the high angular writing on the square perfumed letters and went back to the leather chair too restless to rest yet too weary to stand up. She went presently to the back windows to look out, and then to the side ones. Across the housetops she could catch a glimpse of domes and buildings. There was the Congressional Library, which usually delighted her with its exquisite tones of gold and brown and white. But she had no eyes for it now. Beyond were more buildings, all set in the lovely foliage which was much farther developed than it had been in New York State. From another window she could get a glimpse of the Potomac shining in the morning sun. She wandered to the front windows and looked out. There were people passing and repassing. It was a busy street, but she could not make out whether it was one she knew or not. There were two men walking back and forth on the opposite side. They did not go further than the corner of the street either way. They looked across at the windows sometimes and pointed up, when they met, and once one of them took something out of his pocket and flashed it under his coat at his side, as if to have it ready for use. It reminded her of the thing her husband had held in his hand in the bedroom and she shuddered. She watched them, fascinated, not able to draw herself away from the window.