"But of course not." It was just the sort of thing she wanted him to say, but not in the voice in which he said it. The voice was full of hesitation and embarrassment. Could it be her presence which embarrassed him? With Manford one could never tell. She suggested, almost timidly: "But why shouldn't I leave you to see Kitty alone? Perhaps we needn't both..." His look of relief was unconcealable; but her bright resolution rose above the shock. "You'll do it so much better," she encouraged him. "Oh, I don't know. But perhaps two of us ... looks rather like the Third Degree, doesn't it?" She assented nervously: "All I want is to smooth things over..." He gave an acquiescent nod, and followed her as she moved toward the door. "Perhaps, though--look here, Pauline--" She sparkled with responsiveness. "Hadn't you better wait before sending for Lita? It may not be necessary, if--" Her first impulse was to agree; but she thought of the Inspirational Healer. "You can trust me to behave with tact, dear; but I'm sure it will help Lita to talk things out, and perhaps I shall know better than Kitty how to get at her... Lita and I have always been good friends, and there's a wonderful new man I want to persuade her to see ... some one really psychic..." Manford's lips narrowed in a smile; again she had a confused sense of new deserts widening between them. Why had he again become suddenly sardonic and remote? She had no time to consider, for the new gospel of frustrations was surging to her lips. "_Not_ a teacher; he repudiates all doctrines, and simply _acts_ on you. He--" "Pauline darling! Dexter! Have you been waiting long? Oh, dear--my hour-glass seems to be quite empty!" Mrs. Percy Landish was there, slipping toward them with a sort of aerial shuffle, as if she had blown in on a March gust. Her tall swaying figure produced, at a distance, an effect of stateliness which vanished as she approached, as if she had suddenly got out of focus. Her face was like an unfinished sketch, to which the artist had given heaps of fair hair, a lovely nose, expressive eyes, and no mouth. She laid down some vague parcels and shook the hour-glass irritably, as if it had been at fault. "How dear of you!" she said to her visitors. "I don't often get you together in my eyrie." The expression puzzled Pauline, who knew that in poetry an eyrie was an eagle's nest, and wondered how this term could be applied to a cement bungalow in the East Hundreds... But there was no time to pursue such speculations. Mrs. Landish was looking helplessly about her. "It's cold--you're both freezing, I'm afraid?" Her eyes rested tragically on the empty hearth. "The fact is, I can't have a fire because my andirons are _wrong_."