boy."

"Mr. Carlyon is a wonderful-looking old man," John Derringham returned.
"Someone--who knows him very well--described him long ago as 'Cheiron.'
You will see how apt it is when you meet."

Mrs. Cricklander crashed some chords. She had never heard of this
Cheiron. She felt vaguely that Arabella had told her of some classical
or mythological personage of some such sounding name, a boatman of
sorts--but she dare not risk a statement, so she went on with the point
she wished to gain, which was to investigate at once Mr. Carlyon's
surroundings and discover, if possible, whether there was any influence
there that would be inimical to herself.

"I dare say we can go to-morrow," John Derringham said. "You and I might
walk over--and perhaps Miss Lutworth and Freynault. We can't go a large
party, the house is so small."

"Why cannot you and I go alone, then?" she asked.

"Oh, I think he would like to see Miss Cora. She is such a charming
girl," and John Derringham looked over to where she sat, still dangling
a pair of blue satin feet from the high chair. And inwardly Mrs.
Cricklander burned.

Cora was a second cousin of her divorced husband, and belonged by birth
to that inner cream of New York society which she hated in her heart.
Never, never again would she be so foolish as to chance crossing swords
with one of her own nation. But aloud she acquiesced blandly and
arranged that they should start at eleven o'clock.