“Well, that impresses me as an eminently sane and respectable place to want to go to,” remarked the old Major as he blinked from one to the other of the odd trio confronting him. But his eye, for some reason, was on Gerald Rhindelander West when he spoke next, though his question, obviously, was addressed to Teddie. “And just when do you want to go, my dear?” “As soon as you can get me away from here,” was Teddie’s prompt but low-noted reply. Ceremoniously the old Major held out his crooked right arm and dolorously the girl in the blue-fox took it. Neither of them spoke until they came to a stop beside the wine-colored shopping-car. “I never intend to speak to Gerry West again as long as I live,” announced Teddie, with a combined suddenness and fierceness which made her Uncle Chandler forget his left hip-joint as he climbed into the car beside her. He patted her knee, comprehendingly. “Under the circumstances, then,” he observed as she made the motor whine with an altogether unnecessary jab on the accelerator, “it’ll be just as well, Teddikins, if you don’t see him for a week or two!” . . . Back in the dismal emptiness of the dismal gray studio Gerry and Gunboat stood looking at each other. Then Gunboat sighed fraternally and essayed an owl-like wag of the head. “They’re all alike, them women!” he remarked with the sagacity of one who has survived many unfair ordeals at the hands of the fair. CHAPTER THIRTEEN Teddie’s head was much clearer by the time she had motored out to Tuxedo. Her head was clearer, but the contradictory tides of feeling that eddied about her troubled young heart seemed as muddled-up as ever. Even her Uncle Chandler was not entirely oblivious of the fact that some newer ferment was working in the depths of that bottled-up young soul. But he asked no questions. There were two things which he knew too well for that: one was life in general, and the other was Theodora Lydia Lorillard Hayden in particular.