"I'll be in the woman's waiting room at the Pennsylvania, not the Long Island; the main waiting room. Look for me there. Good-by."
As soon as I caught sight of Lillian I knew that something was the matter, or she would not look at me in that way. Impulsively I laid my hand on hers.
"Tell me, Mrs. Underwood, is anything the matter?"
She imprisoned my hand in both of hers and patted it.
"Nothing that cannot be helped, my dear," she said determinedly. "Now I am going to forbid asking another question until we have had our luncheon. I decline to discuss the affairs of the nation or my own on an empty stomach, and my breakfast this morning consisted of the juice of two lemons and a small cup of coffee."
"Why?" I asked mechanically, although I knew the answer.
"The awful penalty of trying to keep one's figure," she returned lightly. "But I certainly am going to break training this noon. I am simply starved."
Her tone and words were reassuring, although I still felt there was something behind her light manner which intimately concerned me. But I had learned to count on her downright honesty, and her words, "Nothing that cannot be helped, my dear," steadied me, gave me hope that no matter what trouble she had to tell me, she had also a panacea for it.
We discussed our luncheon leisurely. Under the influence of the bracing air, the beautiful view, the delicious viands, I gradually forgot my worries, or at least pushed them back into a corner of my brain.
As we lingered over the ices, Lillian leaned over the table to me.
"Will you do me a favor?" she asked abruptly.
"Ask me to your home for a week's stay. I have an idea you need my fine Italian hand at work about now."
I looked at her wonderingly, then I began to tremble.
"Don't look like that," she commanded sharply. "Nothing dreadful is the matter, but that Dicky bird of yours needs his wings clipped a bit, and I think I am the person to apply the shears."
So there was something wrong with Dicky after all!
"Of course, it's that Draper cat," said Lillian Underwood, and the indignation in her voice was a salve to my wounded pride.
"Of course, I know, you poor child; know, too, how distressed you have been, although Dicky doesn't dream that I gathered that from his ingenuous plea for the lady."