of bedlam.

"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet.
"Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but--but I
really can't delay the--er--Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we
are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run
upstairs and see if--Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is
Miss Fairweather?"

"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down--"

"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs.
She's our new governess, Mr. Flan--"

"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He
leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr.
Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy
portieres.

"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy--I mean to say, Amy--
Fairweather."

"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded
to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and
grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that
dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming.
"Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend--" The sly
grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly
subdued his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I--I was
just wondering if--"