EACH morning a neat little bulletin in Thomas Roland's writing was pinned on a board outside the hotel, and the eighth of these bulletins declared Mrs. Duncan Scott to be out of danger.
The surly Bowden sent her up armfuls of flowers. She had asked to see Thomas Roland, and with Duncan sitting at the head of her bed she gave the owner of the Pelican Inn that world-wide smile of hers.
"What a horrible nuisance I have made of myself. You have been so good"
"Not a bit of it."
"Duncan has been telling me—. You must let us make a fair return—. Mustn't he, dear?"
Roland held one of her hands.
"My dear little lady—I am getting my return. Don't you realize that you have made the Pelican the most talked of hotel in the British Isles. See what it is to be Ethel Frobisher."
At the end of three weeks they were able to carry her out into the garden, where she lay in a long chair padded with cushions under the shade of one of the old trees. And it was she who insisted upon Roland opening the doors of the Pelican to the public.
"I shan't be able to prevent people coming into the garden to stare at you," he said.
She laughed. Life seemed so good that she was ready to be tolerant.
"I don't think I shall mind. After all"
"It is not unpleasant to be?"
"Oh,—within reason. One's human, you know. I really did create a sensation?"
"An enormous sensation. At one time I thought that we
