“Shocking! Well, go to the opera and show yourself. And as for men they’ll soon teach you what to talk about, or you’re not a Carteret. We were all great gabblers. Now, put those jewels back in the casket and put that in the wall-safe over there behind the open panel, before that nurse comes back. She may be as good as she looks, but I never trust outsiders. I told her to send up Topper and he got it out for me. You may keep the pearls. Wear them as often as you can.” After Gita had hidden the casket she returned to the bedside and brushed her lips against the old lady’s tabid cheek. “You are very kind and generous, grandmother,” she said gratefully. “Thanks!” Mrs. Carteret’s voice was as dry as usual but her eyes gleamed. “And your lips are very soft, my dear. Here comes that woman. It is time for your dinner. And when you have replenished your wardrobe I hope you will dress for dinner every night, even when you are alone.” CHAPTER V That was Gita’s last talk with her grandmother. The next day Mr. Donald called, and on the following the old lady had what the nurse alluded to vaguely as one of her attacks. Two nights later she died quietly in her sleep. At the earliest moment consistent with cherished proprieties, Topper telephoned to Mrs. Pleyden, and she came to the manor an hour later. “Polly had a telegram from Bar Harbor yesterday asking her to a house-party,” she said sympathetically to Gita, looking as if she would kiss her if she dared, “and she went off last night. But she’ll be home in a few days and I know she’d want you to come to us for a bit. You will, won’t you, my dear? You’ve hardly had time to get accustomed to this gloomy old house. Do run up and pack a bag.” But Gita shook her head. She felt uncommonly bereft. Her grandmother was a person to be missed, whether she had unconsciously grown fond of her or not. At all events she felt a desire to stand by until the last of the ceremonies. And the old house, in which so many of her blood had lived and died, mysteriously held her. “You are very kind,” she said. “And I’ll be glad to see Polly when she comes back. But I’d better stay here. I’m sure grandmother would have wished it. If—if—you’ll attend to things, though, I’d be grateful.” “I will indeed.” Mrs. Pleyden was a tall slender woman, admirably dressed and poised, but although her life for the most part was spent in a round of bridge, she was by nature executive and always willing to exercise her talent. Her house in Chelsea and her apartment in New York were models of bland extravagance and housewifely skill. In an earlier day she would have been a “leader,” and, as it was, her large and exclusive circle deferred to her and regarded her as a personage. Between herself and Polly there was an unspoken compact. Mrs. Pleyden moved with the times, and life had taught her philosophy.