“Not exactly,” wearily. “I am sorry I kept you waiting, but I was--thinking.” “Yes, miss; I heard yo’ a talkin’ ter yo’self, an’ calculated yo’ didn’t hyar me.” Minerva backed toward the door. “Lunch am ready.” “Is it time?” exclaimed Marjorie, glancing in surprise at her wrist-watch, whose hands pointed to three minutes past one. “I’ll be right down; tell Madame Yvonett not to wait for me.” “Marse Tom’s hyar,” volunteered Minerva, as she disappeared over the threshold, closing the door behind her. Left to herself, Marjorie bathed her face, the cool water bringing some relief to her throbbing temples, then after rearranging her hair, she paused a moment and anxiously regarded her reflection in the mirror. Except for an increased pallor, her expression gave no indication of the shock the stormy interview with Admiral Lawrence had given her. Feverishly pinching her cheeks in hopes of restoring her customary color, and without stopping to replace her gowns in the closet, she left the room and ran downstairs. Six years previous Marjorie’s father, John Langdon, had died a bankrupt, and his worldly possessions had gone under the hammer to meet the demands of his creditors. His widow, never very strong, had soon succumbed to the unequal struggle for existence that confronted her, and after the death of her mother, Marjorie had made her home with her great-aunt, Madame Yvonett, who owned a small house on Thirteenth Street, opposite Franklin Square. She insisted on contributing her share to the household expenses, for Madame Yvonett had trusted her business affairs to her nephew’s management, and when John Langdon failed, most of her property had gone in the general smash, and she eked out her curtailed income by taking paying guests. Madame Yvonett, a Philadelphian by birth, belonged to a distinguished Quaker family, and at the age of sixteen had been, as the quaint term runs, “read out of meeting for marrying one of the world’s people.” Henri Yvonett had wooed and won the beautiful Quakeress when attached to the French Legation, as it was then, and afterwards he was promoted to other diplomatic posts. On his death some eighteen years before, Madame Yvonett had made Washington her home, and her house became one of the centers of fashionable life. Her financial difficulties came when she was approaching three-score years and ten, but only Marjorie divined the pang that her changed fortunes cost the beautiful Quaker dame, for she never discussed her troubles in public. She faced adversity with quiet fortitude; gave up her handsome residence on Scott Circle, dismissed her staff of servants, and moved into the Thirteenth Street house, which had been one of her investments in happier days. Marjorie hastened into the dining-room and found her great-aunt in animated conversation with her cousin, Captain Thomas Nichols, of the --th Field Artillery, who rose at her entrance. “How are you, Madge?” he exclaimed, extending both hands in greeting.