He was shocked and distressed, besides being vastly and stupidly perplexed.
What should he do? One impulse was to rush upon that innocent interloper and kick him clear down the hillside to the hotel, him and his confounded trouble-making letters with him. But the sight of the unsuspecting secretary's earnest face, added to the lure of mail in his hand, smothered that impulse. Besides, there was a principle at stake, and as he recognized this, George's face grew grim. He would resolutely settle one thing now.
Upon the porch was a table of hewn slabs. Beside it were two rustic chairs.
Upon the table Blakeley opened out his briefcase and handed to the president of Judson-Morris Motor Company a stack of letters and telegrams.
"I brought those from the office, sir. This is the morning mail."
While President Judson glanced swiftly through this first assortment of letters and telegrams, disposing of many with a glance and a pencil-mark, concentrating upon others with a frown, Blakeley began slitting the flaps of envelopes. That was the scene without upon the porch.
Within, upon the bed, was quite another. There, face down upon the pillows, swathed in the pale blue silk of one of her trousseau morn-
