She found a certain satisfaction in adding to the mystification, to the disquietude he betrayed by fidgeting more than usual. “But--he always comes when he is in town. Business--I suppose--ahem!” “No,” replied Alison, dropping her bomb with cruel precision, “he has gone to Calvary.” The agitation was instantaneous. “To Calvary!” exclaimed mother and son in one breath. “Why?” It was Gordon who demanded. “A--a special occasion there--a bishop or something?” “I'm afraid you must ask him,” she said. She was delayed on the steps, first by Nan Ferguson, then by the Laureston Greys, and her news outdistanced her to the porch. Charlotte Plimpton looking very red and solid, her eyes glittering with excitement, blocked her way. “Alison?” she cried, in the slightly nasal voice that was a Gore inheritance, “I'm told your father's gone to Calvary! Has Mr. Hodder offended him? I heard rumours--Wallis seems to be afraid that something has happened.” “He hasn't said anything about it to me, Charlotte,” said Alison, in quiet amusement, “but then he wouldn't, you know. I don't live here any longer, and he has no reason to think that I would be interested in church matters.” “But--why did you come?” Charlotte demanded, with Gore naivete. Alison smiled. “You mean--what was my motive?” Charlotte actually performed the miracle of getting redder. She was afraid of Alison--much more afraid since she had known of her vogue in the East. When Alison had put into execution the astounding folly (to the Gore mind) of rejecting the inheritance of millions to espouse a profession, it had been Charlotte Plimpton who led the chorus of ridicule and disapproval. But success, to the Charlotte Plimptons, is its own justification, and now her ambition (which had ramifications) was to have Alison “do” her a garden. Incidentally, the question had flashed through her mind as to how much Alison's good looks had helped towards her triumph in certain shining circles. “Oh, of course I didn't mean that,” she hastened to deny, although it was exactly what she had meant. Her curiosity unsatisfied--and not likely to be satisfied at once, she shifted abruptly to the other burning subject. “I was so glad when I learned you hadn't gone. Grace Larrabbee's garden is a dream, my dear. Wallis and I stopped there the other day and the caretaker showed it to us. Can't you make a plan for me, so that I may begin next spring? And there's something else I wanted to ask you. Wallis and I are going to New York the end of the month. Shall you be there?” “I don't know,” said Alison, cautiously. “We want so much to see one or two of your gardens on Long Island, and especially the Sibleys', on the Hudson. I know it will be late in the season,--but don't you think you could take us, Alison? And I intend to give you a dinner. I'll write you a note. Here's Wallis.” “Well, well, well,” said Mr. Plimpton, shaking Alison's hand. “Where's father? I hear he's gone to Calvary.”