The girl crossed the room, opened a mirrored door, deftly extracted
from a hanging mass of frou-frous behind it a silk dressing jacket,
helped thrust the firm white arms within its dainty sleeves, tucked a
small lace pillow between Alice's shoulders and picking up the glossy
mass of black hair, lifted it skilfully until it lay in glistening
folds over the lace pillow. She then went into the boudoir and
returned with a dainty tray bearing a set of old Sevres, two buttered
wafers of toast and two notes.

Alice waited until her maid closed the bedroom door, then, with
the impatience of a child, she opened one of the two notes--the one
Annette had discreetly placed beneath the other. This she read and
re-read; it was brief, and written in a masculine hand. The woman was
thoroughly awake now--her eyes shining, her lips parted in a satisfied
smile. "You dear old friend," she murmured as she lay back upon the
lace pillow. Dr. Sperry was coming at five.

She tucked the letter beneath the coverlid and opened her husband's
note. Suddenly her lips grew tense; she raised herself erect and
stared at its contents:

I shall pass the summer in the woods if I can find suitable
place for you and Margaret. Make no arrangements which will
conflict with this. Will write later.

SAM.

Again she read it, grasping little by little its whole import: all
that it meant--all that it would mean to her.