“Oh--Murdock--how do you do?” said Melissa wretchedly. He had never before come up unannounced. Obviously the work of a ribald fate that he should do so now. If one could have turned him about with a hand on each of his gray tweed shoulders--thrust him forth ... locked him out ... ordered him away.... To have him see the Marchesa--who had hitherto only seen Granny!...

Melissa’s voice very nearly failed in her throat.

“Come in!” she muttered doggedly and Murdock followed her cheerfully over to the tea-table.

Over to the Marchesa, as well. Before whom, staring frankly, he stopped in his tracks. A hideous moment for Melissa. A moment of inarticulate torture. She had, however, as usual underestimated the Marchesa’s control of reserves.

“How do you do,” said the Marchesa graciously, putting out one heavily-ringed little hand ... “if Melissa isn’t going to present you--I shall speak for myself? I am Amalie Delano ... and who are _you_, young man?”

Unpredictable woman! Surely the mingled souls of Machiavelli and Ninon de l’Enclos returned in that frail frame. Very nearly, Melissa’s mouth fell open. She clenched her teeth just in time. Murdock was answering dazedly--without however any apparent question of that amazing