“Who the deuce--?” began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise. “Can I call?” he said, aloud. “Well, rather!” He let his book drop forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The telegram read merely: “In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA.” The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon her with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made it much less noticeable. “Well, this is a pleasure!” he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet her. “Hello, Tom!” she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. “You needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We have at least an hour to ourselves.” “An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at this time of year. When I got your telegram--” “I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a cab. But I came just to see you.” “How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true.” The young man spoke sincerely. “It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast.”