took up the pen in her gloved fingers and gave it to Hubert Lennon who had not yet put his gloves on.
"You write for me, please," she requested. "Mr. Charles F. Gail," she directed and gave the home street number in Decatur. "Thanks for your wire telling me to go ahead. I knew you'd back me. Love. Thia."
"What?" Lennon said at the last word.
"Just sign it 'Thia.'"
He did so; she charged the dispatch to her room and they went out. The color was still warm in her face. If one of the men in the lobby was a German stationed to observe how she did and if he had seen her start the mistake of writing the telegram, he had seen also an instant recovery, she thought.
A large, luxurious limousine, driven by a chauffeur in private livery, moved up as they came to the curb. When they settled side by side on the soft cushions, the driver started away to the north without requiring instructions.
"You were fifteen years old when I last had a ride with you," Hubert obligingly informed her.
That was nine years ago, in nineteen nine, Cynthia made the mental note; she had become twenty-four years old instead of twenty-two, since the morning.
"But I knew you right away," he went on. "Aunt Emilie would have come for you but you see when she telephoned and found you weren't in at half-past one, she knew she couldn't call for you and get to Mrs. Corliss' on time. And she's a stickler for being on time."
So it was to Mrs. Corliss' they were going—to her great home on the drive. The car was keeping on northward along the snow-banked boulevard with the white
