You're a star--you're to shine.
Well, give 'em a turn in Charles Street. I'll fix it up for you. I wish
you'd think it over."
She gave him grateful looks, but said little. Nevertheless, he went away
encouraged. A week or so later she found a card upon her table: that of a
Mrs. John Chevenix.
"That's my sister-in-law," the friendly youth presently told her. "That's
Mrs. John. You go and see her. She's a good sort of woman. You'll meet
Aunt Wenman there. I thought it all out, and that's the way to get at it.
She'll jump at you, in my opinion. She loves orphans. Collects 'em. You
go!"
She was due in the city on a visit to her father, was, in fact, dressed
for it in her best white frock, roses in her hat. She promised to think of
it--and of course would return Mrs. John's call. The amiable Chevenix
accompanied her as far eastward as it was possible for him to go. He went,
indeed, farther, and in full view of Saint Paul's decided upon a visit to
that sanctuary. You never know your luck, he said. He might meet Senhouse
there. He had been hunting the recessed philosopher high and low.
"Great sport if we met him now--you, who look like lunching at the Savoy
or somewhere, and he like a fakir! What should you do? Fall in his arms?"
Sanchia had mist over the eyes.
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