"Well," he said slowly, "seems to me that I did see him foolin' around the tank. But I was busy, and when I looked up again, he was gone."

"I seen him runnin'," interposed Loretta suddenly. "Runnin' down toward the gate. I remember now!"

"Gasoline!" said Peter's mother pitifully, "Would ... would it _kill_ him, Doctor?"

The doctor laughed outright.

"Not by a long shot," he answered cheerfully. "And if he did take a drink of it, I'll wager it wasn't a very long drink. Now, Mrs.

Goodrich, you and Loretta go home, and get some water heated, and fetch out a pot of mustard. I'm off with Wiggles to find the young athlete."

And that's all, Diary, except that they did find him. It was Wiggles, really, who discovered him in a deserted barn half a mile up the road, sleeping peacefully and smelling to high heaven of the gas. Home they brought him, and it must go on record that though mustard and warm water had no effect whatsoever upon that cast iron little stomach, every time Peter coughed Dr. Denton swears that the gasoline fumes nearly knocked him over!

"Did you really drink it, sweetheart?" asked his mother just before she tucked him in bed.

"Course," answered Peter, wide-eyed. "Mike said it made the cars go fast, so I tried it. I didn't like it much," he confessed, "but golly, how I ran! I wish Jimmy could have seen me!"

And on that, Peter fell asleep.

Diary, I am nearly asleep too. Won't Sarah scold if she catches me! So I will postpone till tomorrow my account of the Lawn Tea--and--the Utterly New Man imminent in our midst!

Now, aren't you curious?

CHAPTER V

The Very Next Day

I was so tired last night, Diary, that I couldn't sleep, and Sarah blames you! She has just said, sternly, "No more writing, Miss Mavis,"

and vanished from the room. Out you come, from under my pillow, in lawless defiance of the mandate. For it's raining and dull, and I can't go out of doors, and so I must have something to occupy me, must I not? But isn't it perfectly wonderful that the rain should deprive me of something? For, it was only a very short time ago that rain or sunshine meant very little to me, aside from aesthetic pleasure, and shut or open windows as the case might be! Now for a description of the Lawn Fete!

It was an early affair; three o'clock, to be exact. And very young September put on her very gayest appearance for me. Father and Sarah, Dr. Bill and Dr. Mac, const.i.tuted themselves a Committee on Decoration and Refreshments, and as a consequence we had a lawn gay with wicker chairs, hammocks, cushions, tables, flags, and flowers; and a very important table loaded with sandwiches, tiny cakes, bonbons, and all manner of cool drinkables. And--then came the crowds! I do believe everyone in Green Hill turned out, from Sammy and his Rosie-of-the-Telegraph (I wonder what happened to the messages during that afternoon? Never mind! No one would have been home to receive them!), to Peter and his small friends and old Granny Wallace, who drove up in a dilapidated buggy, and wore a new black bonnet for the occasion. I wore--and this will interest you--the mauve and turquoise negligee, with various additions. One was a bunch of the loveliest, glowingest orchids you have ever seen, which was brought to me by Mr.

John Denton, who made a flying half-hour's return trip for the express purpose, he said, of kissing my hands and delivering the flowers, which he a.s.sured me came from the donor of Wiggles. A card with the orchids read, "To match a delightful costume." So Mr. Denton, the villain, has been talking! Under my laces, I wore Richard Warren's jade lucky-piece, and in honor of the occasion I decorated Wiggles, much to his disgust, with a huge purple bow. It was very becoming to his lively and brunette beauty, as all who saw him will attest.

It was a dear afternoon. Everyone was so happy for me. They fairly overwhelmed me with good wishes and affectionate, optimistic prophecies. My two medicos kept a very stern guard over me. It seemed as if I couldn't get rid of one or the other for more than a moment at a time. But I had Dr. Mac in a perfectly beautiful rage by accusing him of trying to steal the Scandinavian heart of Hildeborg, my ma.s.sive ma.s.seuse. Oh yes, she was there too, marvellously gotten up, her yellow head very much in the foreground and her big voice booming out at the most inopportune moments in more than the most inopportune remarks, thereby greatly endangering the preservation of gravity in those present. Her public advice to Dr. Mac, along lines of reduction, was extremely exhilarating!

We had music, rendered slightly off key, but with all the good will in the world, by the Green Hill Musical Four, consisting of a Simpson, a Watkins, and the Jones twins, who performed respectively upon a cornet, a violin, a banjo, and a mouth-organ. It was, Diary, the very last word in successful parties. Only one thing occurred to cast any shadow over a wonderful day. And, of all people selected by an unkind Fate to sully my happiness, it was Peter who, to mix metaphors somewhat, cast the first stone. In the presence of at least six villagers, including Granny Wallace, the town gossip, he regarded my frivolity of a lace and ribbon cap, and asked, as solemnly as a mouth full to capacity with cake would permit, "Mavis, _how_ do you set your cap?"

"How do I what?" I asked in all innocence, one hand to my headgear.

"Set it," he repeated. "Sally says that Adeline says that you are setting your cap for Doctor Denton!"

Adeline, Diary, is Sally's sister, and Dr. Denton's cook.

Several in the group about me laughed, and Granny Wallace's ears grew visibly in length.

"I can't imagine what you mean, Peterkins," I answered with well-a.s.sumed carelessness, and turned to talk volubly with Mrs.

Goodrich, who was adding to the gaiety by saying audibly, "Hush, Peter!"

But Peter was not to be silenced.

"Sally says," he protested, in his clear little voice, "that Adeline says she told doctor Denton about it, your cap, you know, and that he laughed out loud and said you could for all of him!"

"What's that about Doctor Denton?" asked that individual, suddenly coming up quietly behind the group.

Talk about bombsh.e.l.ls!

Despite Mrs. Goodrich's frantic attempt to hush her young hopeful, Peter, his hand in Doctor Denton's, obligingly repeated his story.

"An'," he concluded, turning to me wistfully, "please, Mavis, won't you set it for me? I'd like to see how you do it!"

Amid an awestruck silence, Doctor Denton swung Peter, who squealed with delight, up and up to his broad shoulder, and said, laughing but a little red,

"Nonsense, old chap, Miss Carroll won't set her cap for you for--well, about twenty years, more or less. But isn't it a pretty cap?" With a wicked laugh he turned and strode off, Peter clinging to his shock of dark hair and asking very loudly, "But does she do it like hens do, Doctor Uncle?"

I haven't the remotest idea what happened after that. I vaguely remember Granny Wallace hurrying and cackling off, and the other members of the group trying to compose their features and to re-order their conversation. That Mrs. Goodrich, before she left, bent over me and whispered, "Mavis dear, I'm _so_ sorry!" helped matters, as far as I was concerned, not one whit. By the same evening, I am certain that the story was all over Green Hill. Even Sarah said something to me, before I went to bed....

Somehow, I should have thought my helplessness would have protected me a little....

After my guests had gone, Doctor Denton appeared on the scene.

"MacAllister and I will carry you up to your room now, Miss Carroll,"

he said cheerily.

I felt very tired, very cross, and behaved, I'm afraid, like a schoolgirl.

"If you'll get Doctor Mac and Father...."

He went quite white.

"Very well," he said stiffly, and turned away. I did not see him again that day, or for several days thereafter.

I wonder if he really said that I "could for all of him?"

NEW YORK CITY September 11th

Contrary Princess!

Do you think it kind of Your Royal Benevolence to write me the most charming note in the world to thank me for my flowers, and then to almost ruin it by a postscript, a scolding--dare I say, nagging--postscript, in which you sternly forbid me to give myself pleasure and send you "anything more, ever"! You are an--an Indian _Receiver_, that's what you are! And I refuse to have any dealings with your postscript! I will separate it carefully from the rest of the letter, and consign it to candle flame.

I am glad you enjoyed your lawn party. Sorry, though, that anything should have happened during your At Home day to disturb you. Although you do not tell me what it was, I have put two and two together, made a hundred and six, and deducted that some member of my blundering and heavy-footed s.e.x stepped upon your sensibilities. But I am sure you have forgiven him by now--although far be it from me to hold any brief for an unknown and hated rival!

Please, may I come to your next party? I am sure my mother would be willing to chaperone me. I forwarded her your last note; it was addressed to her and I did not dare keep it. But I read it (yes, I did) and I do not notice that you scolded her about those rose-grey bed socks! Indeed, you seemed very glad to have them.

She has been fretting, I know, that they were not finished sooner, but she was called away, as no doubt she told you in her letter, by an illness in the family.

My respects to Wiggles. I wonder if he is entirely cognizant of his good fortune?