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Now Mrs. Propbridge had never heard of any Wilmington Watrouses, but plainly, here in the East they were persons of consequence–persons who would be worth knowing.

She nodded as though to indicate that now she did faintly recall who it was this kindly stranger had meant.

He went on. It was evident that he was inclined to be talkative. The impression was conveyed to her that here was a well-meaning but rather shallow-minded gentleman who was reasonably fond of the sound of his own voice. Yet about him was nothing to suggest over-effusiveness or familiarity.

“I’ve a sort of favor to ask of you,” he said. “I’ve some friends who’re motoring over to-day from Philadelphia. I had to run on down ahead of them to see a man on business. They’re to join me in about an hour from now”–he consulted his watch–“and we’re all driving back together to-night. General Dunlap and Mrs. Claire Denton, his daughter–she’s the amateur tennis champion, you know–and Mrs. Gordon-Tracy, of Newport, and Freddy Urb, the writer–they’re all in the party. And the favor I’m asking is that I may have the pleasure of presenting them to you–that is, of course, unless you already know them–so that I may enjoy the looks on their faces when they find out that you are not Mrs. Beeman Watrous. I know they’ll behave as I did. They won’t believe it at first. May I?”

What could Mrs. Propbridge do except consent? Indeed, inwardly she rejoiced at the prospect. She did not know personally the four named by this Mr. Murrill, but she knew mighty well who they were. What person familiar with the Social Register could fail to know who they were? Another thing had impressed her: The stranger had mentioned these notables with no especial emphasis on the names; but instead, quite casually and in a manner which carried with it the impression that such noted folk as Mrs. Denton and her distinguished father, and Freddy Urb the court jester of the innermost holies of holies of Newport and Bar Harbor and Palm Beach, and Mrs. Gordon-Tracy, the famous beauty, were of the sort with whom customarily he associated. Plainly here was a gentleman who not only belonged to the who’s-who but had a very clear perception of the what-was-what. So fluttered little Mrs. Propbridge promptly said yes–said it with a gratified sensation in her heart.

“That’s fine of you!” said Murrill, visibly elated. It would appear that small favors were to him great pleasures. “That’s splendid! Up until now the joke of this thing has been on me. I want to transfer it to them. I’m to meet them up here in the lounge of the Churchill-Fontenay.”

“That’s where I am stopping,” said Mrs. Propbridge.

“Is it? Better and better! We might stroll along that way if you don’t mind. By Jove, I’ve an idea! Suppose when they arrive they found us chatting together like old friends–suppose as they came up they were to overhear me calling you Mrs. Beeman Watrous. That would make the shock all the greater for them when they found out you really weren’t Mrs. Watrous at all, but somebody they’d never seen before! Are you game for it?… Capital! Only, if we mean to do that we’ll have to kill the time, some way, for forty or fifty minutes or so. Do you mind letting me bore you for a little while? I know it’s unconventional–but I like to do the unconventional things when they don’t make one conspicuous.”

Mrs. Propbridge did not in the least mind. So they killed the time and it died a very agreeable death, barring one small incident. On Mr. Murrill’s invitation they took a short turn in a double-seated roller chair, Mr. Murrill chatting briskly all the while and savoring his conversation with offhand reference to this well-known personage and that. At his suggestion they quit the wheel chair at a point well down the boardwalk to drink orangeades in a small glass-fronted cafe which faced the sea. He had heard somewhere, he said, that they made famous orangeades in this shop. They might try for themselves and find out.