They beat it and kneaded it gaily together, until the fingers were full of the rushing blood and able again to close warmly over her own little hand. "Now go, and let me get ready. I won't be long." He went below to the library, and in the dim grey light picked up a book, "The Delights of Delicate Eating." He tried another, "101 Sandwiches." The next was "Famous Epicures of the 17th Century." On the floor was her diary. He placed it on the table. He heard her call him from the stairs: "Bring me up that ring from the table, please!" He went up and handed it to her through the narrowly opened door. As he went down the stairs he heard the bell ring somewhere below, and went to the door. "Baggage!" The two trunks were down and out. "They're to go on this car, attached to the Chicago Express." He wrote the directions on one of his cards and paid the man. At seven-thirty the bell rang again. The cabman was there. "Seven-thirty, gent!" "Avice!" "I'm coming. And there are two bags I wish you'd get from my room." He let her pass him and went up for them. She went into the library and, taking up the diary, tore out a sheet, marked heavily upon it with a pencil around the passage she had read the evening before, and sealed it in an envelope. She addressed it to her father, and laid it, with a paper-weight on it, upon "The Delights of Delicate Eating," where he would be sure to find it. The book itself she placed on the wood laid ready in the grate to light, touched a match to the crumpled paper underneath and put up the blower. She stood waiting to see that the fire would burn. Over the mantel from its yellow canvas looked above her head the humourously benignant eyes of old Annekje Van Schoule, who had once removed from Maspeth Kill on Long Island to New Haarlem on the Island of Manhattan, and carried there, against her father's will, the yellow-haired girl he had loved. His face now seemed to be pretending unconsciousness of the rashly acted scenes he had witnessed--lest, if he betrayed his consciousness, he should be forced, in spite of himself, to disclose his approval--a thing not fitting for an elderly, dignified Dutch burgher to do. "Avice!" "Coming!" She took up a little package she had brought with her and went out to meet him. "There's one errand to do," she said, as they entered the carriage, "but it's on our way. Have him go up Madison Avenue and deliver this." She showed him the package addressed: "Mr. Rulon Shepler, Personal." "And this," she said, giving him an unsealed note. "Read it, please!" He read: