The June Holiday Home was one of those sumptuous stations where indigent gentlewomen assemble to await the coming of the last train. Breakfast was always served precisely at seven o'clock, and certain dishes appeared as regularly as the days. This was waffle morning on the Home calendar; outside it was known as Thursday. The eyes of the "new lady" wandered beyond the dining-room and followed a young girl, all in pink. "Who is that coming up the walk?" Fourteen faces turned toward the wide front window. Miss Castlevaine was quickest. Her answer did not halt the syrup on its way to her plate. "That's Polly Dudley." "Oh! Dr. Dudley's daughter?" "Yes. She's come over to see Miss Sterling. They're very intimate." "Miss Sterling?" mused Miss Mullaly, with a sweeping glance round the table. "I don't believe I've seen her." "Yes, you have. She was down to tea last night. She had on a light blue waist, and sat over at the end." "Oh, I remember now! She's little and sweet-looking. Somebody told me she had nervous prostration. Too bad! She is so young and pretty!"