"Her smelling-salts!" "A glass of water!" exclaimed Jack.
"No, no," breathed Mrs.De Peyster.
But the pair had darted away, Mary into the bedroom, Jack into the bathroom.

From the bathroom came a sudden, jangling din like the sheet-iron thunder of the stage.
Mary reappeared, fresh amazement on her face.
"Somebody's been using the bedroom! The bed's not made, and your clothes are all about!" The next moment Jack rushed in behind her.
"What a stack of empty tin cans I kicked into in the bathroom! What the deuce has been going on here ?" Mrs.De Peyster looked weakly, hopelessly, at Olivetta.
"There's no use trying to keep it up any longer.

We--we might as well confess.

You tell them, Olivetta." But Olivetta protested into her dripping handkerchief that she never, never could.

So it fell to Mrs.De Peyster herself to be the historian of her plans and misadventures--and she was so far reduced that even the presence of Mr.Pyecroft made no difference to her; and as for Mr.
Pyecroft, when the truth of the affair flashed upon him, that wide, flexible mouth twisted upward into its whimsicalest smile--but the next instant his face was gravity itself.