"Not I," said the younger sister, cavalierly; "he didn't come to see me."
Whereupon Elinor smoothed the two small wrinkles of impatience out of her
brow, tucked her letter into her bosom, and went down to meet the early
morning caller.

Mr. Brookes Ormsby, club-man, gentleman of athletic leisure, and inheritor
of the Ormsby millions, was pacing back and forth before the handful of
fire in the drawing-room grate when she entered.

"You don't deserve to have a collie sheep-dog friend," he protested
reproachfully. "How was I to know that you were going away?"

Another time Elinor might have felt that she owed him an explanation, but
just now she was careful, and troubled about the packing.

"How was I to know you didn't know?" she retorted. "It was in the
_Transcript_."

"Well!" said Ormsby. "Things have come to a pretty pass when I have to
keep track of you through the society column. I didn't see the paper.
Dyckman brought me word last night at Vineyard Haven, and we broke a
propeller blade on the _Amphitrite_ trying to get here in time."

"I am so sorry--for the _Amphitrite_," she said. "But you are here, and in
good season. Shall I call mother and Nell?"

"No. I ran out to see if I'm in time to do your errands for you--take your
tickets, and so on."