“Perhaps she told you of my sister who died,” suggested Marjorie. “She was eight years my senior.” “That must have been it; pull up that chair,” Mrs. Fordyce added, resuming her seat. “My husband and I went to the Orient shortly after her letter, and gradually my correspondence with your mother ceased; but I have many happy memories of our school days. Perhaps you have heard her speak of me--Flora McPherson?” “Of course, how stupid of me!” exclaimed Marjorie, suddenly enlightened. “Mother often told me of your pranks at boarding-school.” “I was well and strong in those days.” A slight sigh escaped Mrs. Fordyce. “This curvature of the spine developed from injuries received in a railroad wreck. Your mother would never recognize her old play-fellow now;” a suspicious moisture dimmed her eyes, and she added hastily, “Throw off your wraps, my dear, and make yourself comfortable. I want to have a long talk with you.” Obediently Marjorie threw back her furs and loosened her coat, as a velvet-footed servant entered with the tea-tray and placed it on the table by Mrs. Fordyce, and deftly arranged the cups and saucers. He left the room to return in a moment carrying a “Curate’s delight” filled with plates of delicious sandwiches and cake. “How will you have your tea?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, removing the cover from the Dutch silver caddy and placing some of the leaves in the teapot while she waited for the water to boil in the kettle. “Moderately strong, one lump of sugar, and lemon,” replied Marjorie. “Our tastes are similar; I hope it’s a good omen,” smiled Mrs. Fordyce. “Try some of these sandwiches.” “How did you discover that I am the daughter of your old friend?” inquired Marjorie. “Mrs. Nicholas McIntyre, who was at Emma Willard’s school at the same time your mother and I were boarders there, told me of you. She admires you greatly.” “Bless her heart!” ejaculated Marjorie warmly. “She has been lovely to me since mother’s death. I didn’t know she had returned to Washington.” “I don’t believe she has. I met her in New York just before coming here, and she advised me----” she broke off abruptly. “How old are you?” “I have just passed my twenty-fourth birthday.” “You don’t look a day over eighteen.” Mrs. Fordyce frowned perplexedly at the singing teakettle. “Mrs. McIntyre said you were private secretary to Admiral Lawrence....” “I have been,” interrupted Marjorie, “but I am with him no longer.” “Then you could come to me--but”--checking herself. “You are so young----” “Why should my age, or lack of it, be a bar to my doing secretary work?” questioned Marjorie, looking in puzzled surprise at her hostess. “I write a fair hand, I am a moderately good stenographer and typewriter, and if you need a social secretary....” “But I don’t require a secretary,” said Mrs. Fordyce. “I want an official chaperon for my daughter, Janet.”