Section 5 of International Women's Literature Collection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Zingu. By Edith Wharton. 1. Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue culture in bands, as though it were dangerous to meet alone. To this end she had founded the lunch-club, an association composed of herself and several other indomitable huntresses of erudition. The lunch-club, after three or four winters of lunching and debate, had acquired such local distinction that the entertainment of distinguished strangers became one of its accepted functions, in recognition of which it duly extended to the celebrated Osric Dane on the day of her arrival in Hillbridge, an invitation to be present at the next meeting. The club was to meet at Mrs. Ballinger's. The other members, behind her back, were of one voice in deploring her unwillingness to cede her rights in favour of Mrs. Plinth, whose house made a more impressive setting for the entertainment of celebrities, while, as Mrs. Leveret observed, there was always the picture gallery to fall back on. Mrs. Plinth made no secret of sharing this view. She had always regarded it as one of her obligations to entertain the lunch-club's distinguished guests. Mrs. Plinth was almost as proud of her obligations as she was of her picture gallery. She was in fact fond of implying that the one possession implied the other, and that only a woman of her wealth could afford to live up to a standard as high as that which she had set herself. An all-round sense of duty, roughly adaptable to various ends, was, in her opinion, all that Providence exacted of the more humbly stationed, but the power which had predestined Mrs. Plinth to keep a footman clearly intended her to maintain an equally specialised staff of responsibilities. It was the more to be regretted that Mrs. Ballinger, whose obligations to society were bounded by the narrow scope of two parlor-maids, should have been so tenacious of the right to entertain Osric Dane. The question of that lady's reception had, for a month passed, profoundly moved the members of the lunch-club. It was not that they felt themselves unequal to the task, but that their sense of the opportunity plunged them into the agreeable uncertainty of the lady who weighs the alternatives of a well-stocked wardrobe. If such subsidiary members as Mrs. Leverett were fluttered by the thought of exchanging ideas with the author of The Wings of Death, no forebodings disturbed the conscious adequacy of Mrs. Plinth, Mrs. Ballinger, and Miss Van Vlok. The Wings of Death had, in fact, at Miss Van Vlok's suggestion, been chosen as the subject of discussion at the last club meeting, and each member had thus been enabled to express her own opinion or to appropriate whatever sounded well in the comments of others. Mrs. Roby alone had abstained from profiting by the opportunity, but it was now openly recognised that, as a member of the lunch-club, Mrs. Roby was a failure. It all comes, as Miss Van Vlok put it, of accepting a woman on a man's estimation. Mrs. Roby, returning to Hillbridge from a prolonged sojourn and exotic lands, the other ladies no longer took the trouble to remember where, had been heralded by the distinguished biologist, Professor Forland, as the most agreeable woman he had ever met, and the members of the lunch-club impressed by an encomium that carried the weight of a diploma, and rashly assuming that the Professor's social sympathies would follow the line of his professional bent, had seized the chance of annexing a biological member. Their disillusionment was complete. At Miss Van Vlok's first offhand mention of the pterodactyl, Mrs. Roby had confusedly murmured, I know so little about meters. And after that, painful betrayal of incompetence, she had prudently withdrawn from farther participation in the mental gymnastics of the club. I suppose she flattered him, Miss Van Vlok summed up. Or else it's the way she does her hair. The dimensions of Miss Van Vlok's dining-room having restricted the membership of the club to six, the non-conductiveness of one member was a serious obstacle to the exchange of ideas, and some wonder had already been expressed that Mrs. Roby should care to live, as it were, on the intellectual bounty of the others. This feeling was increased by the discovery that she had not yet read The Wings of Death. She owned to having heard the name of Osric Dane, but that, incredible as it appeared, was the extent of her acquaintance with the celebrated novelist. The ladies could not conceal their surprise, but Mrs. Ballinger, whose pride in the club made her wish to put even Mrs. Roby in the best possible light, gently insinuated that, though she had not had time to acquaint herself with The Wings of Death, she must at least be familiar with its equally remarkable predecessor, The Supreme Instant. Mrs. Roby wrinkled her sunny brows in a conscientious effort of memory, as a result of which she recalled that, oh yes, she had seen the book at her brother's, when she was staying with him in Brazil, and had even carried it off to read one day on a boating-party, but they had all got to shying things at each other in the boat, and the book had gone overboard, so she had never had the chance. The picture evoked by this anecdote did not increase Mrs. Roby's credit with the club, and there was a painful pause, which was broken by Mrs. Plinth's remarking. I can understand that, with all your other pursuits, you should not find much time for reading, but I should have thought she might at least god-up The Wings of Death before Ozrick Dane's arrival. Mrs. Roby took this rebuke good-humoredly. She had meant she owned to glance through the book, but she had been so absorbed in a novel of troll-ups that, oh, no one reads troll-up now! Mrs. Ballinger interrupted. Mrs. Roby looked pained. I'm only just beginning, she confessed. And does he interest you? Mrs. Plinth inquired. He amuses me. Amusement! said Mrs. Plinth, is hardly what I look for in my choice of books. Oh, certainly the Wings of Death is not amusing! ventured Mrs. Leveret, whose manner of putting forth an opinion was like that of an obliging salesman with a variety of other styles to submit if his first selection does not suit. Was it meant to be? inquired Mrs. Plinth, who was fond of asking questions that she permitted no one but herself to answer. Assuredly not. Assuredly not! that is what I was going to say! assented Mrs. Leveret, hastily rolling up her opinion and reaching for another. It was meant to—to elevate! Miss Van Vluck adjusted her spectacles as though they were the black cap of condemnation. I hardly see, she interposed, how a book steeped in the bitterest pessimism can be said to elevate however much it may instruct. I meant, of course, to instruct! said Mrs. Leveret, flurried by the unexpected distinction between two terms which she had supposed to be synonymous. Mrs. Leveret's enjoyment of the lunch-club was frequently marred by such surprises, and not knowing her own value to the other ladies as a mirror for their mental complacency, she was sometimes troubled by a doubt of her worthiness to join in their debates. It was only the fact of having a dull sister who thought her clever that saved her from a sense of hopeless inferiority. Do they get married in the end? Mrs. Roby interposed. They? Who? the lunch-club collectively exclaimed. Why the girl and the man? It's a novel, isn't it? I always think that's the one thing that matters. If they're parted, it spoils my dinner. Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalized glances, and the latter said, I should hardly advise you to read the wings of death in that spirit. For my part, when there are so many books one has to read, I wonder how anyone can find time for those that are merely amusing. The beautiful part of it, Laura Glide murmured, is surely just this, that no one can tell how the wings of death ends. Osric Dane, overcome by the awful significance of her own meaning, has mercifully veiled it, perhaps even from herself, as Appel, in repenting the sacrifice of Iphigenia, veiled the face of Agamemnon. What's that? Is it poetry? whispered Mrs. Leveret to Mrs. Plinth, who, disdaining a definite reply, said coldly, you should look it up. I always make it a point to look things up. Her tone added, though I might easily have it done for me by the footman. I was about to say, Miss Van Vluck resumed, that it must always be a question whether a book can instruct unless it elevates. Oh! murmured Mrs. Leveret, now feeling herself hopelessly astray. I don't know, said Mrs. Ballinger, senting in Miss Van Vluck's tone a tendency to depreciate the coveted distinction of entertaining Osric Dane. I don't know that such a question can seriously be raised as to a book which has attracted more attention among thoughtful people than any novel since Robert Ellesmere. Oh! but don't you see, exclaimed Laura Glide, that it's just the dark hopelessness of it all, the wonderful tone scheme of black on black, that makes it such an artistic achievement. It reminded me of when I read of Prince Rupert's Manier Noir. The book is etched, not painted, yet one feels the colour value so intensely. Who is he, Mrs. Leveret whispered to her neighbour? Someone she's met abroad? The wonderful part of the book, Mrs. Ballinger concluded, is that it may be looked at from so many points of view. I hear that as a study of determinism, Professor Lupton ranks it with the data of ethics. I'm told that Osric Dane spent ten years in preparatory studies before beginning to write it, said Mrs. Plinth. She looks up everything, verifies everything—it has always been my principle, as you know. Nothing would induce me now to put aside a book before I'd finished it, just because I can buy as many more as I want. And what do you think of the Wings of Death? Mrs. Robie abruptly asked her. It was the kind of question that might be termed out of order, and the ladies glanced at each other as though disclaiming any share in such a breach of discipline. They all knew there was nothing Mrs. Plinth so much disliked as being asked her opinion of a book. Books were written to read, if one read them, what more could be expected? To be questioned in detail regarding the contents of a volume seemed to her as great an outrage as being searched for smuggled laces at the custom-house. The club had always respected this idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Plinth's. Such opinions as she had were imposing and substantial. Her mind, like her house, was furnished with monumental pieces that were not meant to be disarranged. And it was one of the unwritten rules of the lunch-club, that within her own province each member's habits of thought should be respected. The meeting therefore closed with an increased sense on the part of the other ladies of Mrs. Robie's hopeless unfitness to be one of them. 2. Mrs. Leverett, on the eventful day, arrived early at Mrs. Ballinger's, her a volume of appropriate illusions in her pocket. It always flustered Mrs. Leverett to be late at the lunch-club. She liked to collect her thoughts and gather a hint, as the others assembled, of the turn the conversation was likely to take. Today, however, she felt herself completely at a loss, and even the familiar contact of appropriate illusions, which stuck into her as she sat down, failed to give her any reassurance. It was an admirable little volume, compiled to meet all the social emergencies, so that, whether on the occasion of anniversaries, joyful or melancholy, as the classification ran, of banquets, social or municipal, or of baptisms, Church of England or sectarian, its student need never be at a loss for a pertinent reference. Mrs. Leverett, though she had for years devoutly conned its pages, valued it, however, rather for its moral support than for its practical services. For though, in the privacy of her own room, she commanded an army of quotations, these invariably deserted her at the critical moment, and the only phrase she retained, "'Canced thou draw out Leviathan with a hook?' was one she had never yet found occasion to apply. Today she felt that even the complete mastery of the volume would hardly have ensured her self-possession, for she thought it probable that, even if she did, in some miraculous way remember an illusion, it would be only to find that Osric Dane used a different volume. Mrs. Leverett was convinced that literary people always carried them, and would consequently not recognize her quotations. Mrs. Leverett's sense of being adrift was intensified by the appearance of Mrs. Ballinger's drawing-room. To a careless eye its aspect was unchanged, but those acquainted with Mrs. Ballinger's way of arranging her books would instantly have detected the marks of recent perturbation. Mrs. Ballinger's province, as a member of the lunch-club, was the book of the day. On that, whatever it was, from a novel to a treatise on experimental psychology, she was confidently, authoritatively, up. What became of last year's books, or last weeks even, what she did with the subject she had previously professed with equal authority no one had ever yet discovered. Her mind was like a hotel, where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board. It was Mrs. Ballinger's boast that she was abreast with the thought of the day, and her pride that this advanced position should be expressed by the books on her table. These volumes, frequently renewed, and almost always damp from the press, bore names generally unfamiliar to Mrs. Leverett, and giving her, as she furtively scanned them, a disheartening glimpse of new fields of knowledge to be breathlessly traversed in Mrs. Ballinger's wake. But to-day a number of mature-looking volumes were adroitly mingled with the premier of the press. Carl Marx jostled Professor Bergson, and the confessions of St. Augustine lay beside the last work on mentalism, so that even to Mrs. Leverett's fluttered perceptions, it was clear that Mrs. Ballinger didn't in the least know what Osric Dane was likely to talk about, and had taken measures to be prepared for anything. Mrs. Leverett felt like a passenger on an ocean steamer who was told that there is no immediate danger but that she had better put on her life-belt. It was a relief to be roused from these forebodings by Miss Van Vlok's arrival. Well, my dear! the newcomer briskly asked her hostess, what subjects are we to discuss to-day? Mrs. Ballinger was furtively replacing a volume of Wordsworth by a copy of Verlenn. I hardly know, she said somewhat nervously, perhaps we had better leave that to circumstances. said Miss Van Vlok dryly. That means, I suppose, that Laura Glide will take the floor as usual, and we shall be deluged with literature. Philanthropy and statistics were Miss Van Vlok's province, and she resented any tendency to divert their guest's attention from these topics. Mrs. Plint at this moment appeared. Literature! she protested in a tone of remonstrance. But that is perfectly unexpected. I understood we were to talk of Osric Dane's novel. Mrs. Ballinger winced at the discrimination, but let it pass. We can hardly make that our chief subject, at least not too intentionally, she suggested. Of course we can let our talk drift in that direction, but we ought to have some other topic as an introduction, and that is what I want to consult you about. The fact is, we know so little of Osric Dane's tastes and interests that it is difficult to make any special preparation. It may be difficult, said Mrs. Plint with decision, but it is necessary. I know what that happy-go-lucky principle leads to. As I told one of my nieces the other day, there are certain emergencies for which a lady should be always prepared. It's in shocking taste to wear colours when one pays a visit of condolence, or last year's dress when there are reports that one's husband is on the wrong side of the market, and so it is with conversation. All I ask is that I should know beforehand what is to be talked about, then I feel sure of being able to say the proper thing. I quite agree with you, Mrs. Ballinger assented, but—and at that instant, heralded by the fluttered parlor maid, Osric Dane appeared upon the threshold. Mrs. Leverett told her sister afterward that she had known at a glance what was coming. She saw that Osric Dane was not going to meet them half way. That distinguished personage had indeed entered with an air of compulsion not calculated to promote the easy exercise of hospitality. She looked as though she were about to be photographed for a new edition of her books. The desire to propitiate a divinity is generally an inverse ratio to its responsiveness, and the sense of discouragement produced by Osric Dane's entrance visibly increased the lunch-club's eagerness to please her. Any lingering idea that she might consider herself under an obligation to her entertainers was at once dispelled by her manner. As Mrs. Leverett said afterward to her sister, she had a way of looking at you that made you feel as if there was something wrong with your hat. This evidence of greatness produced such an immediate impression on the ladies that a shudder of awe ran through them when Mrs. Robie, as their hostess led the great personage into the dining-room, turned back to whisper to the others, What a brute she is! The hour about the table did not tend to revise this verdict. It was passed by Osric Dane in the silent deglutition of Mrs. Ballinger's menu, and by the members of the club in the omission of tentative platitudes which their guests seemed to swallow as perfunctorily as the successive courses of the luncheon. Mrs. Ballinger's reluctance to fix a topic had thrown the club into a mental disarray which increased with the return to the drawing-room, where the actual business of discussion was to open. Each lady waited for the other to speak, and there was a general shock of disappointment when their hostess opened the conversation by the painfully commonplace enquiry. Is this your first visit to Hillbridge? Even Mrs. Leverett was conscious that this was a bad beginning, and a vague impulse of deprecation made Miss Glide interject, It is a very small place indeed. Mrs. Plinth bristled, We have a great many representative people, she said, in the tone of one who speaks for her order. Mrs. Plinth's constitutional dislike to being questioned was intensified by her sense of unpreparedness, and her reproachful glance passed the question on to Mrs. Ballinger. Why, said that lady, glancing in turn at the other members, as a community I hope it is not too much to say that we stand for culture. For art, Miss Glide interjected, For art and literature, Mrs. Ballinger amended, And for sociology I trust, snapped Miss Van Block. We have a standard, said Mrs. Plinth, feeling herself suddenly secure on the vast expanse of a generalization, and Mrs. Leverett, thinking there must be room for more than one on so broad a statement, took courage to murmur, Oh, certainly we have a standard. The object of our little club, Mrs. Ballinger continued, is to concentrate the highest tendencies of Hillbridge to centralize and focus its intellectual effort. This was felt to be so happy that the ladies drew an almost audible breath of relief. We aspire, the President went on, to be in touch with whatever is highest in art, literature, and ethics. What ethics, she asked. A tremor of apprehension encircled the room. None of the ladies required any preparation to pronounce on a question of morals, but when they were called ethics, it was different. The club, when fresh from the Encyclopedia Britannica, the Reader's Handbook, or Smith's Classical Dictionary, could deal confidently with any subject. But when taken unawares, it had been known to define agnosticism as a heresy of the early church, and Professor Froud as a distinguished histologist, and such minor members as Mrs. Leverett still secretly regarded ethics as something vaguely pagan. Even to Mrs. Ballinger, Osric Dain's question was unsettling, and there was a general sense of gratitude when Laura Glide leaned forward to say, with her most sympathetic accent, You must excuse us, Mrs. Dain, for not being able just at present to talk of anything but the wings of death. Yes! said Miss Van Vlokke, with a sudden resolve to carry the war into the enemy's camp. We are so anxious to know the exact purpose you had in mind in writing your wonderful book. You will find, Mrs. Plinthenter posed, that we are not superficial readers. We are eager to hear from you, Miss Van Vlokke continued, if the pessimistic tendency of the book is an expression of your own convictions or—or merely, Miss Glide thrust in—a sombre background brushed in to throw your figures into more vivid relief. Are you not primarily plastic? I have always maintained, Mrs. Ballinger interposed, that you represent the purely objective method. Osric Dain helped herself critically to coffee. How do you define objective? She then inquired. There is a flurried pause before Laura Glide intensely murmured, In reading you, we don't define, we feel— Osric Dain smiled. The cerebellum, she remarked, is not infrequently the seat of the literary emotions. And she took a second lump of sugar. The sting that this remark was vaguely felt to conceal was almost neutralized by the satisfaction of being addressed in such technical language. Ah! The cerebellum, said Miss Van Vlokke complacently, the club took a course in psychology last winter. Which psychology? asked Osric Dain. There was an agonizing pause, during which each member of the club secretly deplored the distressing inefficiency of the others. Only Mrs. Roby went on placently sipping her chartreuse. At last Mrs. Ballinger said, with an attempt at a high tone, Well, really, you know, it was last year that we took psychology, and this winter we had been so absorbed in— She broke off, nervously trying to recall some of the club's discussions, but her faculties seemed to be paralyzed by the petrifying stare of Osric Dain. What had the club been absorbed in? Mrs. Ballinger, with a vague purpose of gaining time, repeated slowly, We've been so intensely absorbed in— Mrs. Roby put down her liqueur-glass, and drew near the group with a smile. In zingu? She gently prompted. A thrill ran through the other members. They exchanged confused glances, and then, with one accord, turned a gaze of mingled relief and interrogation on their rescuer. The expression of each denoted a different phase of the same emotion. Mrs. Plinth was the first to compose her features to an air of reassurance. After a moment's hasty adjustment, her look almost implied that it was she who had given the word to Mrs. Ballinger. Zingu, of course! exclaimed the latter with her accustomed promptness, while Miss Van Vlach and Laura Glide seemed to be plumbing the depths of memory, and Mrs. Leveret, feeling apprehensively for the appropriate illusions, was somehow reassured by the uncomfortable pressure of its bulk against her person. Osric Dane's change of countenance was no less striking than that of her entertainers. She too put down her coffee-cup, but with a look of distinct annoyance. She too wore, for a brief moment, what Mrs. Roby afterward described as the look of feeling for something in the back of her head, and before she could dissemble these momentary signs of weakness, Mrs. Roby, turning to her with a deferential smile, had said, "'And we've been so hoping that today you would tell us just what you think of it.'" Osric Dane received the homage of the smile as a matter of course, but the accompanying question obviously embarrassed her, and it became clear to her observers that she was not quick at shifting her facial scenery. It was as though her countenance had been so long set in an expression of unchallenged superiority that the muscles had stiffened, and refused to obey her orders. "'Zingu,' she said, as if seeking in her turn to gain time. Mrs. Roby continued to press her. Knowing how engrossing the subject is, you will understand how it happens that the club has let everything else go to the wall for the moment. Since we took up Zingu, I might almost say—were it not for your books—that nothing else seems to us worth remembering." Osric Dane's stern features were darkened rather than lit up by an uneasy smile. "'I am glad to hear that you make one exception,' she gave out between narrowed lips. "'Oh, of course,' Mrs. Roby said prettily, "'but as you have shown us that, so very naturally, you don't care to talk of your own things, we really can't let you off from telling us exactly what you think about Zingu—especially,' she added with a still more persuasive smile, as some people say that one of your last books was saturated with it. It wasn't it, then. The assurance sped like fire through the parched minds of the other members. In their eagerness to gain the least little clue to Zingu, they almost forgot the joy of assisting at the discomforture of Mrs. Dane. The latter readdened nervously under her antagonist's challenge. "'May I ask,' she faltered out, "'to which of my books you refer?' Mrs. Roby did not falter. "'That's just what I want you to tell us, because, though I was present, I didn't actually take part.' "'Present at what?' Mrs. Dane took her up, and for an instant the trembling members of the lunch-club thought that the champion Providence had raised up for them had lost a point. But Mrs. Roby explained herself gaily. "'At the discussion, of course, and so were dreadfully anxious to know just how it was that you went into the Zingu.' There was a portentous pause, a silence so big with incalculable dangers, that the members with one accord checked the words on their lips, like soldiers dropping their arms to watch a single combat between their leaders. Then Mrs. Dane gave expression to their inmost dread by saying sharply, "'Ah! You say THE Zingu, do you?' Mrs. Roby smiled undauntedly. "'It is a shade pedantic, isn't it? Personally I always drop the article, but I don't know how the other members feel about it.' The other members looked as though they would willingly have dispensed with this appeal to their opinion, and Mrs. Roby, after a bright glance about the group, went on, "'They probably think, as I do, that nothing really matters except the thing itself, except Zingu.' No immediate reply seemed to occur to Mrs. Dane, and Mrs. Ballinger gathered courage to say, "'Surely everyone must feel that about Zingu.'" Mrs. Plinth came to her support with a heavy murmur of ascent, and Laura glides side-out emotionally, "'I have known cases where it has changed a whole life.' "'It has done me worlds of good,' Mrs. Leverett interjected, seeming to herself to remember that she had either taken it or read it the winter before.' "'Of course,' Mrs. Roby admitted. "'The difficulty is that one must give up so much time to it. It's very long.' "'I can't imagine,' said Miss Van Vlok, grudging the time given to such a subject. "'And deep in places,' Mrs. Roby pursued. So then it was a book. And it isn't easy to skip.' "'I never skip,' said Mrs. Plinth dogmatically. "'Ah, it's dangerous, too, in Zingu. Even at the start there are places where one can't. One must just wade through.' "'I should hardly call it wading,' said Mrs. Ballinger sarcastically. Mrs. Roby sent her look of interest. "'Ah, you always found it when swimmingly?' Mrs. Ballinger hesitated. "'Of course there are difficult passages,' she conceded. "'Yes, some are not at all clear, even,' Mrs. Roby added. "'If one is familiar with the original.' "'As I suppose you are?' Osric Dane interposed, suddenly fixing her with a look of challenge. Mrs. Roby met it by a deprecating gesture. "'Oh, it's really not difficult up to a certain point, though some of the branches are very little known, and it's almost impossible to get at the source.' "'Have you ever tried?' Mrs. Plinth inquired, still distrustful of Mrs. Roby's thoroughness. Mrs. Roby was silent for a moment. Then she replied with lowered lids. "'No, but a friend of mine did—a very brilliant man—and he told me it was best for women—not to.' A shudder ran around the room. Mrs. Leverett coughed so that the parlor maid, who was handing the cigarettes, should not hear. Miss Van Vluck's face took on a nauseated expression, and Mrs. Plinth looked as if she were passing someone she did not care to bow to. But the most remarkable result of Mrs. Roby's words was the effect they produced on the lunch-clubs' distinguished guest. Osric Dane's impassive features suddenly softened to an expression of the warmest human sympathy, and edging her chair towards Mrs. Roby, she asked, "'Did he really—and—did you find he was right?' Mrs. Ballinger, in whom annoyance at Mrs. Roby's unwonted assumption of prominence, was beginning to displace gratitude for the age she had rendered, could not consent to her being allowed, by such dubious means, to monopolize the attention of their guest. Osric Dane had not enough self-respect to resent Mrs. Roby's flippancy, at least the lunch-club would do so in the person of its president. Mrs. Ballinger laid her hand on Mrs. Roby's arm. "'We must not forget,' she said with a frigid amiability, "'that, absorbing as Zingu is to us, it may be less interesting to—' "'Oh, no, on the contrary, I assure you,' Osric Dane intervened. "'To others,' Mrs. Ballinger finished firmly, "'and we must not allow our little meeting to end without persuading Mrs. Dane to say a few words to us on a subject which, to-day, is much more present in all our thoughts. I refer, of course, to the wings of death.' The other members, animated by various degrees of the same sentiment, and encouraged by the humanized mean of their redoubtable guest, repeated after Mrs. Ballinger, "'Oh, yes, you really must talk to us a little about your book.'" Osric Dane's expression became, as bored, though not as haughty, as when her work had been previously mentioned. But before she could respond to Mrs. Ballinger's request, Mrs. Roby had risen from her seat, and was pulling down her veil over her frivolous nose. "'I'm so sorry,' she said, advancing toward her hostess, without stretched hand, "'but before Mrs. Dane begins, I think I'd better run away. Unluckily, as you know, I haven't read her books, so I should be at a terrible disadvantage among you all. Then besides, I have an engagement to play bridge.'" If Mrs. Roby had simply pleaded her ignorance of Osric Dane's work as a reason for withdrawing, the lunch-club, in view of her recent prowess, might have approved such evidence of discretion. But to couple this excuse, with the brazen announcement that she was foregoing the privilege for the purpose of joining a bridge-party, was only one more instance of her deplorable lack of discrimination. The ladies were disposed, however, to feel that her departure—now that she had performed the sole service she was ever likely to render them—would probably make for greater order and dignity in the impending discussion, besides relieving them of the sense of self-distrust which her presence always mysteriously produced. Mrs. Ballinger therefore restricted herself to a formal murmur of regret, and the other members were just grouping themselves comfortably about Osric Dane, when the latter, to their dismay, started up from the sofa on which she'd been seated. "'Oh, wait! do wait! and I'll go with you,' she called out to Mrs. Roby, and, seizing the hands of the disconcerted members, she administered a series of farewell pressures with the mechanical haste of a railway conductor punching tickets. "'I'm so sorry, I'd quite forgotten,' she flung back at them from the threshold. And as she joined Mrs. Roby, who had turned in surprise at her appeal, the other ladies had the mortification of hearing her say, in a voice which she did not take the pains to lower, "'If you'll let me walk a little way with you, I should so like to ask you a few more questions about Zingu.'" III The incident had been so rapid that the door closed on the departing pair before the other members had time to understand what was happening. Then a sense of the indignity put upon them by Osric Dane's unceremonious desertion began to contend with the confused feeling that they had been cheated out of their due without exactly knowing how or why. There was a silence, during which Mrs. Ballinger, with a perfunctory hand, rearranged the skillfully grouped literature at which her distinguished guest had not so much as glanced, then Miss Van Vluck tartly pronounced, "'Well, I can't say that I consider Osric Dane's departure a great loss.'" This confession crystallized the resentment of the other members, and Mrs. Leverett exclaimed, "'I do believe she came on purpose to be nasty!' It was Mrs. Plinth's private opinion that Osric Dane's attitude toward the lunch-club might have been very different had it welcomed her in the majestic setting of the Plinth drawing-rooms. But not liking to reflect on the inadequacy of Mrs. Ballinger's establishment, she saw it a roundabout satisfaction in depreciating her lack of foresight. I said from the first that we ought to have had a subject ready. It's what always happens when you're unprepared. Now if we'd only got up Zingu." The slowness of Mrs. Plinth's mental processes was always allowed for by the club, but this instance of it was too much for Mrs. Ballinger's equanimity. "'Zingu!' she scoffed. Why it was the fact of our knowing so much more about it than she did, unprepared, though we were, that made Osric Dane so furious! I should have thought that was plain enough to everybody." This retort impressed even Mrs. Plinth, and Laura Glide, moved by an impulse of generosity, said, "'Yes, we really ought to be grateful to Mrs. Roby for introducing the topic. It may have made Osric Dane furious, but at least it made her civil.' "'I'm glad we were able to show her,' added Miss Van Vluck, that a broad and up-to-date culture is not confined to the great intellectual centers." This increased the satisfaction of the other members, and they began to forget their wrath against Osric Dane in the pleasure of having contributed to her discomforture. Miss Van Vluck thoughtfully rubbed her spectacles. "'What surprised me most,' she continued, "'was that Fanny Roby should be so up on Zingu.' This remark threw a slight chill on the company, but Mrs. Ballinger said with an air of indulgent irony, "'Mrs. Roby always has the knack of making a little go a long way. Still we certainly owe her a debt for happening to remember that she'd heard of Zingu.' And this was felt by the other members to be a graceful way of cancelling once for all the club's obligation to Mrs. Roby. Even Mrs. Leverett took courage to speed a timid shaft of irony. I fancy Osric Dane hardly expected to take a lesson in Zingu at Hillbridge." Mrs. Ballinger smiled. "'When she asked me what we represented, do you remember? I wish I'd simply said we represented Zingu.' All the ladies laughed appreciatively at this sally except Mrs. Plinth, who said after a moment's deliberation, "'I'm not sure it would have been wise to do so.'" Mrs. Ballinger, who was already beginning to feel as if she had launched at Osric Dane the retort which had just occurred to her, turned ironically on Mrs. Plinth. "'May I ask why?' she inquired. Mrs. Plinth looked grave. "'Surely,' she said. I understood from Mrs. Roby herself that the subject was one it was not as well to go into too deeply." Miss Van Vluck rejoined with precision. I think that applied only to an investigation of the origin of the—of the—and suddenly she found that her usually accurate memory had failed her. "'It's a part of the subject I never studied myself,' she concluded. "'Nor I,' said Mrs. Ballinger. Laura Glyde bent toward them with widened eyes. And yet it seems, doesn't it, the part that is fullest of an esoteric fascination. "'I don't know on what you base that,' said Miss Van Vluck argumentatively. "'Well, didn't you notice how intensely interested Osric Dane became as soon as she heard what the brilliant foreigner—he was a foreigner, wasn't he—had told Mrs. Roby about the origin—the origin of the right, or whatever you call it?' Mrs. Plinth looked disapproving, and Mrs. Ballinger visibly wavered. Then she said, "'I think it may not be desirable to touch on the—on that part of the subject in general conversation, but from the importance it evidently has to a woman of Osric Dane's distinction, I feel as if we ought not to be afraid to discuss it amongst ourselves—without gloves—so with closed doors, if necessary.' "'I am quite of your opinion,' Miss Van Vluck came briskly to her support, on condition that is that all grossness of language is avoided. "'Oh, I'm sure we shall understand without that,' Mrs. Leverett tittered, and Laura Glide added significantly. "'I fancy we can read between the lines,' while Mrs. Ballinger rose to assure herself that the doors were really closed. Mrs. Plinth had not yet given her adhesion. "'I hardly see,' she began, "'what benefit is to be derived from investigating such peculiar customs?' But Mrs. Ballinger's patience had reached the extreme limit of tension. This at least,' she returned, "'that we shall not be placed again in the humiliating position of finding ourselves less up on our own subject than Fanny Roby.'" Even to Mrs. Plinth, this argument was conclusive. She peered furtively about the room and lowered her commanding tones to ask, "'Have you got a copy?' "'Uh—a copy,' stampered Mrs. Ballinger. She was aware that the other members were looking at her expectantly, and that this answer was inadequate, so she supported it by asking another question." "'A copy of what?' Her companion spent their expectant gaze on Mrs. Plinth, who in turn appeared less sure of herself than usual. "'Why—of—of the book?' she explained. "'What book?' snapped Miss Van Block, almost as sharply as Osric Dane. Mrs. Ballinger looked at Laura Glide, whose eyes were interrogatively fixed on Mrs. Leverett. The fact of being deferred to was so new to the latter that it filled her with an insane temerity. "'Why, zingu, of course,' she exclaimed. A profound silence followed this challenge to the resources of Mrs. Ballinger's library, and the latter, after glancing nervously toward Books of the Day, returned with dignity. "'It's not a thing one cares to leave about.'" "'I should think not,' exclaimed Mrs. Plinth. "'It is a book, then,' said Miss Van Block. This again, through the company and to disarray, and Mrs. Ballinger with an impatient sigh rejoined. "'Why, there is a book, naturally!' Then why did Miss Glide call it a religion?' Laura Glide started up. "'A religion? I never! Yes, you did,' Miss Van Block insisted. "'You spoke of rights,' and Mrs. Plinth said it was a custom. Miss Glide was evidently making a desperate effort to recall her statement, but accuracy of detail was not her strongest point. At length she began in a deep murmur. "'Surely, they used to do something of the kind at the Hedercinian Mysteries.' "'Oh,' said Miss Van Block, on the verge of disapproval, and Mrs. Plinth protested, "'I understood there was to be no indelicacy.'" Mrs. Ballinger could not control her irritation. "'Really, it is too bad that we should not be able to talk the matter over quietly among ourselves. Personally, I think that if one goes into Zingu at all—' "'Oh, so do I,' cried Mrs. Glide, and I don't see how one can avoid doing so, if one wishes to keep up with the thought of the day.' Mrs. Leverett uttered an exclamation of relief. "'There! There! That's it!' She interposed. "'What's it?' the President took her up. "'Why, it's a thought! I mean, a philosophy.' This seemed to bring a certain relief to Mrs. Ballinger and Laura Glide, but Miss Van Block said, "'Excuse me, if I tell you that you're all mistaken, Zingu happens to be a language.'" "'A language?' the lunch-club cried. "'Certainly. Don't you remember Fanny Roby saying that there were several branches and that some were hard to trace? What could that apply to but dialects?' Mrs. Ballinger could no longer restrain a contemptuous laugh. "'Really? If the lunch-club has reached such a pass that it has to go to Fanny Roby for instruction on a subject like Zingu, it had better almost cease to exist.'" "'It's really her fault for not being clearer,' Laura Glide put in. "'Oh, clearness and Fanny Roby,' Mrs. Ballinger shrugged. "'I dare say we shall find she was mistaken on almost every point.'" "'Why not look it up?' asked Mrs. Plinth. As a rule, this recurrent suggestion of Mrs. Plinth was ignored in the heat of discussion and only resorted to afterward in the privacy of each member's home, but on the present occasion the desire to ascribe their own confusion of thought to the vague and contradictory nature of Mrs. Roby's statements caused the members of the lunch-club to utter a collective demand for a book of reference. At this point the production of her treasured volume gave Mrs. Leveret, for a moment, the unusual experience of occupying the centre-front, but she was not able to hold it long, for appropriate illusions contained no mention of Zingu. "'Oh, that's not the kind of thing we want,' exclaimed Miss Van Vluck. She cast a disparaging glance over Mrs. Ballinger's assortment of literature and added impatiently, "'Haven't you any useful books?' "'Of course I have,' replied Mrs. Ballinger indignantly. "'I keep them in my husband's dressing-room.'" From this region, after some difficulty and delay, the parlor maid produced the W-to-Z volume of an encyclopedia, and in deference to the fact that the demand for it had come from Miss Van Vluck laid the ponderous tome before her. There was a moment of painful suspense while Miss Van Vluck rubbed her spectacles, readjusted them, and turned to Zee. And a murmur of surprise when she said, "'It isn't here.'" "'I suppose,' said Mrs. Plinth, "'it's not fit to be put in a book of reference.'" "'Oh, nonsense,' said Mrs. Ballinger, "'try X!' Miss Van Vluck turned back through the volume, peering short-sightedly up and down the pages, till she came to a stop, and remained motionless, like a dog on a point." "'Well, have you found it?' Mrs. Ballinger inquired after a considerable delay." "'Yes, I've found it,' said Miss Van Vluck in a queer voice. Mrs. Plinth hastily interposed. I beg you won't read it aloud if there's anything offensive.' Miss Van Vluck, without answer, and continued her silent scrutiny. "'Well, what is it?' exclaimed Laura Glide excitedly. "'Do tell us,' urged Mrs. Leverett, feeling that she would have something awful to tell her sister. Miss Van Vluck pushed the volume aside and turned slowly toward the expectant group. "'It's a river.'" "'A river?' "'Yes, in Brazil. Isn't that where she's been living?' "'Who? Fanny Roby?' "'Oh, but you must be mistaken. You've been reading the wrong thing!' Mrs. Ballinger exclaimed, leaning over her to seize the volume. It's the only zingu in the encyclopedia, and she has been living in Brazil!' Miss Van Vluck persisted. "'Yes, her brother has a consulship there,' Mrs. Leverett interposed.  I—we—' "'Why, we all remember studying zingu last year, or the year before last?' Mrs. Ballinger stammered. "'I thought I did when you said so,' Laura Glide about. "'I said so,' cried Mrs. Ballinger. "'Yes, you said it had crowded everything else out of your mind.  Mrs. Plinth interposed. I made it clear that I knew nothing whatever of the original.' Mrs. Ballinger broke off the dispute with a groan. "'Oh, what does it matter if she's been making fools of us? I believe Miss Van Vluck's right. She was talking of the river all the while. How could she? It's too preposterous!' Miss Glide exclaimed. "'Listen!' Miss Van Vluck had repossessed herself of the encyclopedia, and restored her spectacles to a nose reddened by excitement. The zingu, one of the principal rivers of Brazil, rises on the plateau of Mato Grosso, and flows in an orderly direction for a length of no less than one thousand one hundred and eighteen miles, entering the Amazon near the mouth of the latter river. The upper course of the zingu is oriferous and fed by numerous branches. This source was first discovered in 1884 by the German explorer Vanden Steinen, after a difficult and dangerous expedition through a region inhabited by tribes still in the stone age of culture. The ladies received this communication in a state of stupefied silence, from which Mrs. Leverett was the first to rally. She certainly did speak of its having branches. The word seemed to snap the last thread of their incredulity. And of its great length gassed Mrs. Ballinger. She said it was awfully deep, and you couldn't skip, you just had to wade through," Miss Glide added. The idea worked its way more slowly through Mrs. Plint's compact resistances. How could there be anything improper about a river? She inquired. Improper? Why, what she said about the source, that it was corrupt? Not corrupt, but hard to get at, Laura Glide corrected. Someone who'd been there had told her so. I dare say it was the explorer himself. Doesn't it say that the expedition was dangerous? Difficult and dangerous, read Miss Van Block. Mrs. Ballinger pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. There's nothing she said that wouldn't apply to a river—to this river! She swung about excitedly to the other members. Why do you remember her telling us that she hadn't read the supreme instant, because she'd taken it on a boating party while she was staying with her brother, and someone had shied it overboard? Shied, of course, was her own expression. The ladies breathlessly signify that the expression had not escaped them. Well, and didn't she tell Osric Dane that one of her books was simply saturated with singoo? Of course it was, if one of Mrs. Robie's rowdy friends had thrown it into the river. This surprising reconstruction of the scene in which they had just participated left the members of the lunch-club in articulate. At length, Mrs. Plinth, after visibly laboring with the problem, said in a heavy tone, Osric Dane was taken in, too. Mrs. Leverett took courage at this. Perhaps that's what Mrs. Robie did it for. She said Osric Dane was a brute, and she may have wanted to give her a lesson. Miss Van Block frowned. It was hardly worthwhile to do it at our expense. At least, said Miss Glide, with a touch of bitterness, she succeeded in interesting her, which was more than we did. What chance had we? Rejoined Mrs. Ballinger. Mrs. Robie monopolized her from the first, and that, I've no doubt, was her purpose, to give Osric Dane a false impression of her own standing in the club. She would hesitate at nothing to attract attention. We all know that's how she took in poor Professor Foreland. She actually makes him give bridge tees every Thursday. Mrs. Leverett piped up. Laura Glide struck her hands together. Why, this is Thursday, and it's there she's gone, of course, and taken Osric with her. And they're shrieking over us at this moment, said Mrs. Ballinger, between her teeth. This possibility seemed too preposterous to be admitted. She would hardly dare, said Miss Van Block, confess the imposter to Osric Dane. I'm not so sure. I thought I saw her make a sign as she left. If she hadn't made a sign, why should Osric Dane have rushed out after her? Well, you know, we'd all been telling her how wonderful Zingu was, and she said she wanted to find out more about it. Mrs. Leverett said, with a tardy impulse of justice to the absent. This reminder, far from mitigating the wrath of the other members, gave it a stronger impetus. Yes, and that's exactly what they're both laughing over now, said Laura Glide ironically. Miss Plinth stood up and gathered her expensive furs about her monumental form. I have no wish to criticise, she said, but unless the lunch-club can protect its members against the recurrence of such—such unbecoming scenes, I for one. Oh, so do I, agreed Miss Glide, rising also. Miss Van Block closed the encyclopedia, and proceeded to button herself into her jacket. My time is really too valuable, she began. I fancy we are all of one mind, said Mrs. Ballinger, looking searchingly at Mrs. Leverett, who looked at the others. I always deprecate anything like a scandal, Mrs. Plinth continued. She has been the cause of one to-day, exclaimed Miss Glide. Mrs. Leverett moaned, I don't see how she could!  But if—Mrs. Plinth took up her argument impressively—anything of the kind had happened in my house, it never would have, her tone implied. I should have felt that I owed it to myself, either to ask her Mrs. Roby's resignation, or to offer mine. Oh, Mrs. Plinth gasped the lunch-club. Fortunately for me, Mrs. Plinth continued with an awful magnanimity, the matter was taken out of my hands by our president's decision that the right to entertain distinguished guests was a privilege vested in her office, and I think the other members will agree that, as she was alone in this opinion, she ought to be alone in deciding on the best way of effacing its—its really deplorable consequences. A deep silence followed this outbreak of Mrs. Plinth's long-stored resentment. I don't see why I should be expected to ask her to resign, Mrs. Ballinger at length began, but Laura Glide turned back to remind her. You know she made you say that you'd got on swimmingly in Zingu. An ill-timed giggle escaped from Mrs. Leveret, and Mrs. Ballinger energetically continued, but you needn't think for a moment that I'm afraid to. The door of the drawing-room closed on the retreating backs of the lunch-club, and the president of that distinguished association, seating herself at her writing-table, and pushing away a copy of The Wings of Death to make room for her elbow, drew forth a sheet of the club's note-paper, on which she began to write. My dear Mrs. Roby. End of Zingu by Edith Wharton. A conceited fool is a not uncommon expression. Now I know that I am not a fool, but I also know that I am conceited. But candidly can it be helped if one happens to be young, well and strong, passably good-looking, with some money that one has inherited and more that one has earned, and all enough to make life comfortable, and if upon this foundation rests also the pleasant super-structure of a literary success? The success is deserved, I think, certainly it was not lightly gained. Yet even with this I fully appreciate its rarity. Thus I find myself very well entertained in life. I have all I wish in the way of society, and a deep though, of course, carefully concealed satisfaction in my own little fame, which fame I foster by a gentle system of non-interference. I know that I am spoken of as that quiet young fellow who writes those delightful little studies of society, you know, and I live up to that definition. A year ago I was in Rome, and enjoying life particularly. I had a large number of my acquaintances there, both American and English, and no day passed without its invitation. Of course I understood it. It is seldom that you find a literary man who is good-tempered, well-dressed, sufficiently provided with money, and amably obedient to all the rules and requirements of society. When found, make a note of it, and the note was generally an invitation. One evening upon returning to my lodgings, my man Simpson informed me that a person had called in the afternoon, and upon learning that I was absent had not left a card, but her name—Miss Grief. Grief has so far not visited me here, I said to myself, dismissing Simpson and seeking my little balcony for a final smoke, and she shall not now. I shall take care to be not at home to her, if she continues to call. And then I felt thinking of Isabelle Abercrombie, in whose society I had spent that, and many evenings. They were golden thoughts. The next day there was an excursion. It was late when I reached my rooms, and again Simpson informed me that Miss Grief had called. Is she coming continuously? I said half to myself. Yes, sir. She mentioned that she should call again. How does she look? Well, sir—a lady, but not so prosperous as she was, I should say—answered Simpson discreetly. Young? No, sir. Alone? A maid with her, sir. But once outside, in my little high-up balcony with my cigar, I again forgot Miss Grief and whatever she might represent. Who would not forget in that moonlight with Isabelle Abercrombie's face, to remember? The stranger came a third time, and I was absent. Then she let two days pass, and began again. It grew to be a regular dialogue between Simpson and myself when I came in at night. Grief to-day? Yes, sir. What time? For, sir. Happy the man, I thought, who can keep her confined to a particular hour. But I should not have treated my visitor so cavalierly if I had not felt sure that she was eccentric and unconventional—quality is extremely tiresome in a woman no longer young or attractive. If she were not eccentric she would not have persisted in coming to my door day after day in this silent way, without stating her errand, leaving a note, or presenting her credentials in any shape. I made up my mind that she had something to sell—a bit of carving or some intaglio supposed to be antique. It was known that I had a fancy for oddities. I said to myself, she has read or heard of my old gold story, or else the buried god, and she thinks me an idealizing ignoramus upon whom she can impose. Her sepulchral name is at least not Italian—probably she is a sharp country woman of mine, turning by means of the present aesthetic craze and honest penny when she can. She had called seven times during a period of two weeks without seeing me, when one day I happened to be at home in the afternoon, owing to a pouring rain in a fit of doubt concerning Miss Abercrombie. I had constructed a careful theory of that young lady's characteristics in my own mind, and she had lived up to it delightfully, until the previous evening, when with one word she had blown it to atoms and taken flight, leaving me standing, as it were, on a desolate shore with nothing but a handful of mistaken inductions were with to console myself. I do not know a more exasperating frame of mind, at least for a constructor of theories. I could not write, and so I took up a French novel—I muddle myself a little on Balzac. I had been turning over its pages, but a few moments, when Simpson knocked, and, entering softly, said, with just a shadow of a smile on his well-trained face, Miss Grief. I briefly consigned Miss Grief to all the furies, and then, as he still lingered, perhaps not knowing where they resided, I asked where the visitor was. No carriage, sir, in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at home. She must be unpleasantly wet, if she had no carriage. No carriage, sir, they always come on foot. I think she is a little damp, sir. Well, let her in, but I don't want them made. I may as well see her now, I suppose, and end the affair. Yes, sir. I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not much more. She had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. Miss Grief, he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him. A woman. Yes, a lady, but shabby, unattractive, and more than middle-aged. I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still keeping the book in my hand. Miss Grief, I said interrogatively, as I indicated a seat with my eyebrows. Not Grief, she answered. Creef. My name is Creef. She sat down, and I saw that she held a small, flat box. Not carving, then, I thought. Probably old lace, something that belonged to Tulia or Lucrezia Borgia. But as she did not speak, I found myself obliged to begin. You have been here, I think, once or twice before? Seven times. This is the Eighth. A silence. I am often out, indeed I may say that I am never in, I remarked carelessly. Yes, you have many friends. Who will perhaps buy old lace, I mentally added. But this time I too remained silent. Why should I trouble myself to draw her out? She had sought me, let her advance her idea, whatever it was, now that entrance was gained. But Miss Grief, I preferred to call her so, did not look as though she could advance anything. Her black gown, damp with rain, seemed to retreat fearfully to her thin self, while her thin self retreated as far as possible from me, from the chair, from everything. Her eyes were cast down. An old-fashioned lace veil with a heavy border shaded her face. She looked at the floor, and I looked at her. I grew a little impatient, but I made up my mind that I would continue silent and see how long a time she would consider necessary to give due effect to her little pantomime. Comedy or was it tragedy? I suppose full five minutes passed thus in our double silence, and that is a long time when two persons are sitting opposite each other alone in a small still room. Just last my visitor, without raising her eyes, said slowly, You are very happy, are you not, with youth, health, friends, riches, fame? It was a singular beginning. Her voice was clear, low, and very sweet, as she thus enumerated my advantages one by one in a list. I was attracted by it, but repelled by her words which seemed to me flattery both dull and bold. Thanks, I said, for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I seldom discuss myself even when with my friends. I am your friend," replied Miss Grief. Then after a moment she added slowly, I have read every word you have written. I curled the edges of my book indifferently. I am not a tharp, I hope, but others have said the same. What is more, I know much of it by heart. Continued my visitor. Wait! I will show you. And then, without pause, she began to repeat something of mine word for word, just as I had written it. On she went, and I—listened. I intended interrupting her after a moment, but I did not, because she was reciting so well, and also because I felt a desire gaining upon me to see what she would make of a certain conversation which I knew was coming—a conversation between two of my characters, which was, to say the least, Sphinx-like, and somewhat incandescent as well. What won me a little, too, was the fact that the scene she was reciting—it was hardly more than that, though called a story—was secretly my favourite among all the sketches from my pen which a gracious public has received with favour. I never said so, but it was, and I had always felt a wondering annoyance that the aforesaid public, while kindly praising beyond their worth other attempts of mine, had never noticed the higher purpose of this little shaft, aimed not at the balconies and lighted windows of society, but straight up toward the distant stars. So she went on, and presently reached the conversation. My two people began to talk. She had raised her eyes now, and was looking at me soberly as she gave the words of the woman, quiet, gentle, cold, and the replies of the man, bitter, hot, and scathing. Her very voice changed, and took, though always sweetly, the different tones required, while no point of meaning, however small, no breath of delicate emphasis which I had meant, but which the dull types could not give, escaped an appreciative and full, almost overful, recognition which startled me. For she had understood me, understood me almost better than I had understood myself. It seemed to me that while I had laboured to interpret, partially, a psychological riddle, she, coming after, had comprehended its bearings better than I had, though confining herself strictly to my own words and emphasis. The scene ended. It ended rather suddenly. She dropped her eyes, and moved her hand nervously to and fro over the box she held. Her gloves were old and shabby, her hands small. I was secretly much surprised by what I had heard, but my ill-humour was deep-seated that day, and I still felt sure besides that the box continued something which I was expected to buy. "'You recite remarkably well,' I said carelessly, and I am much flattered also by your appreciation of my attempt, but it is not, I presume, to that alone that I owe the pleasure of this visit.' "'Yes,' she answered, still looking down. "'It is, for if you had not written that scene I should not have sought you. Your other sketches are interiors, exquisitely painted and delicately finished, but of small scope. This is a sketch in a few bold, masterly lines, work of entirely different spirit and purpose.' I was netted by her insight. You have bestowed so much of your kind attention upon me that I feel your debtor,' I said conventionally. "'It may be that there is something I can do for you, connected, possibly, with that little box.' It was impertinent, but it was true, for she answered. "'Yes,' I smiled, but her eyes were cast down, and she did not see the smile. "'What I have to show you is a manuscript,' she said after a pause which I did not break. "'It is a drama. I thought that perhaps you would read it.' "'An authoress? This is worse than old lace,' I said to myself in dismay. Then aloud, my opinion would be worth nothing, Miss Grief. Not in a business way, I know, but it might be in assistance personally.' Her voice had sunk to a whisper. Outside the rain was pouring steadily down. She was a very depressing object to me as she sat there with her box. "'I hardly think I have the time at present,' I began. She had raised her eyes and was looking at me. Then when I paused, she rose and came suddenly to ward my chair. "'Yes, you will read it,' she said with her hand on my arm. "'You will read it. Look at this room. Look at yourself. Look at all you have. Then look at me, and have pity.' I had risen, for she held my arm and her damp skirt was brushing my knees. Her large, dark eyes looked intently into mine as she went on. I have no shame in asking. Why should I have? It is my last endeavour, but a calm and well-considered one. If you refuse, I shall go away knowing that fate has wielded so, and I shall be content.' "'She is mad,' I thought. But she did not look so, and she had spoken quietly, even gently. "'Sit down,' I said, moving away from her. I felt as if I had been magnetised, but it was only the nearness of her eyes to mine and their intensity. I drew forward a chair, but she remained standing. "'I cannot,' she said, in the same sweet gentle tone. "'Unless you promise.' "'Very well, I promise, only sit down.' As I took her arm to lead her to the chair, I perceived that she was trembling, but her face continued unmoved. "'You do not, of course, wish me to look at your manuscript now,' I said, temporising. "'It would be much better to leave it. Give me your address, and I will return it to you with my written opinion. Though I repeat, the latter will be of no use to you. It is the opinion of an editor or publisher that you want.' "'It shall be as you please. And I will go in a moment,' said Miss Grief, pressing her palms together as if trying to control the tremor that had seized her slight frame. She looked so pallid that I thought of offering her a glass of wine. Then I remembered that if I did it might be a bait to bring her there again, and this I was desirous to prevent. She rose while the thought was passing through my mind. Her paste-board box lay on the chair she had first occupied. She took it, wrote an address on the cover, laid it down, and then, bowing with a little air of formality, drew her black shawl round her shoulders and turned toward the door. I followed, after touching the bell. "'You will hear from me by letter,' I said." Simpson opened the door, and I caught a glimpse of the maid, who was waiting in the ante-room.  As the door opened she turned toward it a pair of small, dim blue eyes with a look of furtive suspense. Simpson dropped the curtain, shutting me into the inner room. He had no intention of allowing me to accompany my visitor further. But I had the curiosity to go to a bay window in an angle from whence I could command the street-door, and presently I saw them issue forth in the rain, and walk away side by side, the mistress being the taller holding the umbrella. Probably there was not much difference in rank between persons so poor and forlorn as these. It grew dark. I was invited out for the evening, and I knew that if I should go I should meet Miss Abercrombie. I said to myself that I would not go. I got out my paper for writing. I made my preparations for a quiet evening at home with myself, but it was of no use. It all ended slavishly in my going. At the last allowable moment I presented myself, and as a punishment for my vacillation I suppose, I never passed a more disagreeable evening. I drove homeward in a murky temper. It was foggy without, and very foggy within. What Isabelle really was, now that she had broken through my elaborately built theories, I was not able to decide. There was, to tell the truth, a certain young Englishman. But that is apart from this story. I reached home, went up to my rooms, and had a supper. It was to console myself. I am obliged to console myself scientifically once in a while. I was walking up and down afterwards, smoking and feeling somewhat better, when my eye fell upon the paste-board box. I took it up. On the cover was written an address which showed that my visitor must have walked a long distance in order to see me. A. Creef. A. Grief, I thought, and so she is. I positively believe she has brought all this trouble upon me. She has the evil eye. I took out the manuscript and looked at it. It was in the form of a little volume and clearly written. On the cover was the word Armour in German text, and underneath a pen and ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield. Grief certainly needs Armour, I said to myself, sitting down by the table and turning over the pages. I may as well look over the thing now, I could not be in a worse mood. And then I began to read. Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given address, returning with the following reply. No, I prefer to come to you at four. A. Creef. These words, with their three semicolons, were written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing paper, but the handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink. What sort of a place was it, Simpson? Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was. You had no chance, then, to make inquiries, I said, knowing full well that he had emptied the entire neighbourhood of any information it might possess concerning these two lodgers. Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants to hear it or not. But it seems that these two persons have been there but a few weeks. They live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved. The people round there call them something that signifies the Madame's American, thin and dumb. At four the Madame's American arrived. It was raining again, and they came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the anti-room, and Miss Grief was uttered into my bachelor's parlor. I had thought that I should meet her with great deference, but she looked so forlorn that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that impressed me then more than the writer—the fragile, nerveless body more than the inspired mind. For it was inspired. I had sat up half the night over her drama, and felt thrilled through and through more than once by its earnestness, passion, and power. No one could have been more surprised than I was to find myself thus enthusiastic. I thought I had outgrown that sort of thing. And one would have supposed to—I myself should have supposed so the day before—that the faults of the drama, which were many and prominent, would have chilled any liking I might have felt. I, being a writer myself, and therefore critical, for writers are as apt to take much of the how rather than the what as painters, who, it is well known, prefer an exquisitely rendered representation of a common place theme to an imperfectly executed picture of even the most striking subject. But in this case, on the contrary, the scattered rays of splendor and Miss Grief's drama had made me forget the dark spots, which were numerous and disfiguring, or rather the splendor had made me anxious to have the spots removed. And this also was a philanthropic state very unusual with me. Regarding successful writers, my motto had been, Vy víctis. My visitor took a seat and folded her hands. I could see, in spite of her quiet manner, that she was in breathless suspense. It seemed so pitiful that she should be trembling there before me, a woman so much older than I was, a woman who possessed the divine spark of genius, which I was by no means sure, in spite of my success, had been granted to me, that I felt as if I ought to go down on my knees before her, and entreat her to take her proper place of supremacy at once. But there, one does not go down on one's knees combustively, as it were, before a woman over fifty, plain in feature, thin, dejected, and ill-dressed. I contented myself with taking her hands, in their miserable old gloves, in mine, while I said cordially, Miss Grief, your drama seems to me full of original power. It has roused my enthusiasm. I sat up half the night, reading it. The hands I held shook, but something, perhaps a shame for having evaded the knee's business, made me tighten my hold and bestow upon her also a reassuring smile. She looked at me for a moment, and then, suddenly and noiselessly, tears rose and rolled down her cheeks. I dropped her hands and retreated. I had not thought her tearful. On the contrary, her voice and face had seemed rigidly controlled.  I rushed for a glass of wine. I pressed her to take it. I did not quite know what to do, but, putting myself in her place, I decided to praise the drama—and praise it I did. I do not know when I have used so many adjectives.  Do take the wine? I said, interrupting myself in my cataract of language. I dare not, she answered, then added humbly. That is, unless you have a biscuit here, or a bit of bread. I found some biscuit. She ate, too, and then slowly drank the wine while I resumed my verbal Niagara. Under its influence, and that of the wine, too, perhaps, she began to show new life. It was not that she looked radiant. She could not, but simply that she looked warm. I now perceived what had been the principal discomfort of her appearance here to fore. It was that she had looked all the time as if suffering from cold. At last I could think of nothing more to say, and stopped. I really admired the drama, but thought I had exerted myself sufficiently as an anti-hysteric, and that adjectives enough, for the present at least, had been administered. She had put down her empty wine-glass, and was resting her hands on the broad cushioned arms of her chair, with, for a thin person, a sort of expanded content. "'You must pardon my tears,' she said, smiling. It was the revulsion of feeling. My life was at a low ebb. If your sentence had been against me, it would have been my end. Your end?' "'Yes.  I should have destroyed myself.' "'Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman,' I said, in a tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism.' "'Oh, no. You know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this poor, worn tenement of clay. But I could well understand how you would look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life, the prince and the beggar may have different opinions. We will say no more of it. But talk of the drama instead.' As she spoke the word drama, a triumphant brightness came into her eyes. I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "'I suppose you know that there are faults,' I said, expecting ready acquiescence. "'I was not aware that there were any,' was her gentle reply. "'Here,' was the beginning, "'after all my interest in her, and I may say under the circumstances my kindness, she received me in this way. However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her whimsies, so I persevered. "'Let us go over it together,' I said. "'Shall I read it to you, or will you read it to me?' "'I will not read it, but recite it.' "'That will never do. You will recite it so well that we shall see only the good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the bad ones.' "'I will recite it,' she repeated. "'Now, Miss Creef,' I said bluntly, "'for what purpose did you come to me? Certainly not merely to recite, I am no stage manager. "'In plain English it was a noture idea that I might help you in obtaining a publisher?' "'Yes, yes,' she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old manner returning. I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume, and began. I first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of expression and structure. Then I turned back, and touched upon two or three glaring impossibilities in the plot. "'Your absorbed interest in the motive of the whole, no doubt made you forget these blemishes,' I said upon. But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes, that she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the whole with even greater mindlessness and care. I worked hard. The perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with her. What shall I call it? Obstinacy. But it was not exactly obstinacy. She simply could not see the faults of her own work. Any more than a blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had finished my task the second time, she still remained as gently impassive as before. I leaned back in my chair, exhausted, and looked at her. Even then she did not seem to comprehend, whether she agreed with it or not, what I must be thinking. "'It is such a heaven to me that you like it,' she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more animation, and now you will let me recite it.' I was too weary to oppose her. She threw aside her shawl and bonnet, and standing in the centre of the room began. And she carried me along with her. All the strong passages were doubly strong when spoken, and the faults which seemed nothing to her were made by her earnestness to seem nothing to me, at least for that moment. When it was ended she stood looking at me with a triumphant smile. "'Yes,' I said. "'I like it. And you see that I do.' But I like it, because my taste is peculiar. To me originality and force are everything, perhaps because I have not them to any marked degree myself, but the world at large will not overlook as I do your absolutely barbarous shortcomings on account of them. Will you trust me to go over the drama and correct it at my pleasure?' This was a vast deal for me to offer. I was surprised at myself. "'No,' she answered softly, still smiling. "'There shall not be so much as a comma altered.' Then she sat down, and fell into a reverie as though she were alone. "'Have you written anything else?' I said after a while, when I had become tired of the silence. "'Yes.' "'Can I see it? Or is it them?' "'It is them. Yes, you can see them all. I will call upon you for the purpose.' "'No. You must not,' she said, coming back to the present nervously. "'I prefer to come to you.'" At this moment Simpson entered to light the room, and busied himself rather longer than was necessary over the task. When he finally went out I saw that my visitor's manner had sunk into its former depression, with the presence of the servant seemed to have chilled her. "'When did you say I might come?' I repeated, ignoring her refusal. I did not say it. It would be impossible.' "'Well, then, when will you come here?' There was, I fear, a trace of fatigue in my voice. "'At your good pleasure, sir,' she answered humbly. My chivalry was touched by this, after all, she was a woman. Come to-morrow,' I said. "'By the way, come and dine with me, then. Why not?' I was curious to see what she would reply. "'Why not, indeed? Yes. I will come. I am forty-three. I might have been your mother.' This was not quite true, as I am over thirty, but I look young, while she—well, I had thought her over fifty. I can hardly call you mother, but we might compromise upon—'Aunt,' I said, laughing. "'Aunt what?' "'My name is Arana,' she gravely answered. My father was much disappointed that I was not a boy, and gave me, as nearly as possible, the name he had prepared—Aaron. Then come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring with you the other manuscript, Arana.' I said, amused at the quaint sound of the name. On the whole I did not like Aunt. "'I will come,' she answered. It was twilight and still raining, but she refused all offers of escort or carriage, departing with her maid as she had come, under the brown umbrella. The next day we had the dinner. Simpson was astonished, and more than astonished, grieved, when I told him that he was to dine with the maid. But he could not complain in words, since my own guest, the mistress, was hardly more attractive. When our preparations were complete, I could not help laughing. The two prim little tables, one in the parlor and one in the ante-room, and Simpson disapprovingly going back and forth between them, were irresistible. I greeted my guest hilariously when she arrived, and fortunately her manner was not quite so depressed as usual. I could never have accorded myself with a tearful mood. I had thought that perhaps she would make, for the occasion, some change in her attire. I have never known a woman who had not some scrap of finery, however small, in reserve for that unexpected occasion of which she is ever dreaming. But no, misgrief wore the same black gown, unadorned and unaltered. I was glad that there was no rain that day, so that the skirt did not at least look so damp and rheumatic. She ate quietly, almost furtively, yet with a good appetite, and she did not refuse the wine. Then when the meal was over and Simpson had removed the dishes, I asked for the new manuscripts. She gave me an old green copy-book filled with short poems and a prose sketch by itself. I lit a cigar and sat down at my desk to look them over. Perhaps you will try a cigarette, I suggested, more for amusement than anything else, for there was not a shade of bohemianism about her. Her whole appearance was puritanical. I have not yet succeeded in learning to smoke. You have tried," I said, turning round. Yes, Serena and I tried, but we did not succeed. Serena is your maid. She lives with me. I was seized with inward laughter, and began hastily to look over her manuscripts with my back to her, so that she might not see it. A vision had risen before me of those two forlorn women alone in their room with locked doors, patiently trying to acquire the smoker's art. But my attention was soon absorbed by the papers before me. Such a fantastic collection of words, lines, and epithets I had never before seen or even in dreams imagined. In truth they were like the work of dreams. They were Kubla Khan, only more so. Here and there was a radiance like the flash of a diamond, but each poem, almost each verse and line, was marred by some fault or lack which seemed willful perversity, like the work of an evil sprite. It was like a case of jeweler's wares set before you, with each ring unfinished, each bracelet too large or too small for its purpose, each breastpin without its fastening, each necklace purposely broken. I turned the pages, marvelling. When about half an hour had passed and I was leaning back for a moment to light another cigar, I glanced toward my visitor. She was behind me in an easy chair before my small fire, and she was, fast asleep. In the relaxation of her unconsciousness I was struck anew by the poverty her appearance expressed. Her feet were visible, and I saw the miserable worn old shoes which hitherto she had kept concealed. After looking at her for a moment I returned to my task and took up the prose story. In prose she must be more reasonable. She was less fantastic perhaps, but hardly more reasonable. The story was that of a profligate and commonplace man forced by two of his friends, in order not to break the heart of a dying girl who loves him, to live up to a high imaginary ideal of himself which her pure but mistaken mind has formed. He has a handsome face and sweet voice, and repeats what they tell him. Her long, slow decline and happy death, and his own inward-on-wee and profound weariness of the role he has to play, made the vivid points of the story. So far well enough, but here was the trouble. Through the whole narrative moved another character, a physician of tender heart and exquisite mercy, who practiced murder as a fine art, and was regarded, by the author, as a second messiah. This was monstrous. I read through it twice and threw it down. Then fatigued I turned round and leaned back, waiting for her to wake. I could see her profile against the dark hue of the easy chair. She seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred then opened her eyes. I have been asleep, she said, rising hurriedly. No harm in that, Arana. But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the occasion required, so much so indeed that I turned the conversation back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. I cannot stand that doctor of yours," I said, indicating the prose story. No one would. You must cut him out. Her self-possession returned as if by magic. Say not," she answered hotly. Oh! If you do not care, I had laboured under the impression that you were anxious these things should find a purchaser. I am, I am," she said, her manner changing to deep humility with wonderful rapidity, with such alterations of feeling as this sweeping over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time. Then you must take out that doctor. I am willing, but do not know how," she answered, pressing her hands together helplessly. In my mind he belongs to the story so closely that he could not be separated from it. Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me. It was a line from Mrs. Abercrombie inviting me for that evening, an unexpected gathering, and therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in spite of me. I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as completely as though they had never existed. But bodily, being still in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present. You have had good news," she said. Oh! No! Nothing special, merely an invitation. But good news also," she repeated, and now as for me I must go. Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl. You will hear from me soon," I said. I shall do all I can for you." She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned, and extended her hand. You are good," she said. I give you thanks. Do not think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am so—so old. Then she opened the door and passed through the anti-room without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out, to continue my studies in psychology. Time passed. I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited—sometimes psychology is exciting. But though much occupied with my own affairs, I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding misgrief. I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the drama to a publisher—also an acquaintance—a man with a taste for phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear. Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from misgrief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. The story has force, but I cannot stand that doctor," he wrote. Letter cut him out, and I might print it. Just what I myself had said. The package lay there on my table, travel worn and grimed. A return manuscript is, I think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before writing to Eirana, until the second letter was received. A week later it came. Armour was declined. The publisher had been impressed by the power displayed in certain passages, but the impossibilities of the plot rendered it unavailable for publication. In fact, would bury it in ridicule if brought before the public—a public lamentably fond of amusement, seeking it undaunted even in the canon's mouth. I doubt if he himself knew what he meant, but one thing at any rate was clear—Armor was declined. Now I am, as I have remarked before, a little obstinate. I was determined that misgrief's work should be received. I would alter and improve it myself without letting her know. The end justified the means. Only the sieve of my own good taste, whose mesh had been pronounced so fine and delicate, would serve for two. I began, and utterly failed. I set to work first upon Armour. I amended, altered, and left out, put in, pieced, condensed, lengthened. I did my best, and all to know avail. I could not succeed in completing anything that satisfied me, or that approached in truth misgrief's own work just as it stood. I suppose I went over that manuscript twenty times, I covered sheets of paper with my copies. But the obstinate drama refused to be corrected. As it was it must stand or fall. We read and annoyed, I threw it aside, and took up the prose-story. That would be easier. But to my surprise I found that the apparently gentle doctor would not out. He was so closely interwoven with every part of the tale that to take him out was like taking out one special figure in a carpet. It is impossible, unless you unravel the whole. At last I did unravel the whole, and then the story was no longer good, or Arana's. It was weak and mine. All this took time, for of course I had much to do in connection with my own life and tasks. But though slowly and at my leisure I really did try my best as regarded misgrief, and without success. I was forced at last to make up my mind that either my own powers were not equal to the task, or else that her perversities were as essential a part of her work as her inspirations and not to be separated from it. Once during this period I showed two of the short poems to Isabel, withholding, of course, the writer's name. They were written by a woman, I explained. Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing, Isabel said in her gentle way when she returned them. At least, judging by these, they are hopelessly mixed and vague. Now they were not vague so much, as vast. But I knew that I could not make Isabel comprehend it, and, so complex a creature is man, I did not know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad that she did not like even these. Not that poor Arana's poems were evil, they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed, and I liked her so. One afternoon, about the time when I was beginning to see that I could not improve Miss Grief, I came upon the maid. I was driving, and she had stopped on the crossing to let the carriage pass. I recognized her at a glance, by her general forlornness, and called to the driver to stop. "'How is Miss Grief?' I said. I have been intending to write to her for some time. And your note, when it comes,' answered the old woman on the crosswalk fiercely, "'She shall not see—' What? I say she shall not see it. Your patronizing face shows that you have no good news, and you shall not rack and stab her any more on this earth, please, God, while I have authority.' Who has racked or stabbed her, Serena? Serena indeed! Rubbish! I am no Serena. I am her aunt.   "'But she shall die in peace in spite of you,' she continued. "'Vampires, you take her ideas and fatten on them, and leave her to starve. You know you do. You who have had her poor manuscripts these months and months. Is she ill?' I asked, in real concern, gathering that much at least from the incoherent to raid. "'She is dying,' answered the desolate old creature, her voice softening and her dim eyes filling with tears. "'Oh, I trust not. Perhaps something can be done. Can I help you in any way?' "'In all ways, if you would,' she said, breaking down and beginning to sob weekly, with her head resting on the sill of the carriage-window. "'Oh, what we have not been through together, we two. Peace by peace I have sold all. I am good-hearted enough, but I do not like to have old women weeping across my carriage door. I suggested therefore that she should come inside and let me take her home. Her shabby old skirt was soon beside me, and following her directions the driver turned toward one of the most wretched quarters of the city, the abode of poverty, crowded and unclean. Here, in a large, bare chamber up many flights of stairs, I found Miss Grief. As I entered I was startled. I thought she was dead. There seemed no life present until she opened her eyes, and even then they rested upon us vaguely, as though she did not know who we were. But as I approached a light came into them. She recognized me, and this sudden revivification, this return of the soul to the almost deserted body, was the most wonderful thing I ever saw. "'You have good news of the drama,' she whispered as I bent over her. "'Tell me. I know you have good news.' "'What was I to answer? Pray, what would you have answered, Puritan?' "'Yes, I have good news, Arana,' I said. The drama will appear. And who knows? Perhaps it will in some other world.'  "'He knows I am your aunt. I told him,' said the old woman, coming to the bedside. "'Did you?' whispered Miss Grief, still gazing at me with a smile. "'Then please, dear Aunt Martha, give me something to eat.' Aunt Martha hurried across the room, and I followed her. It's the first time she's asked for food in weeks,' she said in a husky tone. She opened a cupboard door vaguely, but I could see nothing within. "'What have you for her?' I asked with some impatience, though in a low voice. "'Please, God, nothing,' answered the poor old woman, hiding her reply, and her tears behind the broad cupboard door. "'I was going out to get a little something when I met you. "'Good heavens! Is it money you need? Take this and send, or go yourself in the carriage waiting below.' She hurried out breathless, and I went back to the bedside, much disturbed at what I had seen and heard.  And I did tell her, a romance invented for the occasion. I ventured to say that none of my published sketches could compare with it. As for the lie involved, it will stand among my few good deeds I know at the judgment bar. Then she was satisfied. "'I have never known what it was,' she whispered, to be fully happy until now. She closed her eyes, and when the lids fell I again thought that she had passed away. But no, there was still pulsation in her small thin wrist. As she perceived my touch she smiled. "'Yes, I am happy,' she said again, though without audible sound. The old aunt returned, food was prepared, and she took some. I myself went out after wine that should be rich and pure. She rallied a little, but I did not leave her. Her eyes dwelt upon me and compelled me to stay, or rather my conscience compelled me. It was a damp night, and I had a little fire made. The wine, fruit, flowers, and candles I had ordered made the bare place for the time being bright and fragrant. Aunt Martha dosed in her chair from sheer fatigue. She had watched many nights. But Miss Grief was awake, and I sat beside her. "'I make you my executor,' she murmured, as to the drama. But my other manuscripts place when I am gone under my head, and let them be buried with me. They are not many, those you have, and these—see.' I followed her gesture, and saw under her pillows the edges of two more copybooks like the one I had. "'Do not look at them, my poor dead children,' she said tenderly. Let them depart with me, unread, as I have been.' Later she whispered, "'Did you wonder why I came to you? It was the contrast. You were young, strong, rich, praised, loved, successful—all that I was not. I wanted to look at you and imagine how it would feel. You had success, but I had the greater power. Tell me, did I not have it?' "'Yes, Arana.' It is all in the past now, but I am satisfied.' After another pause she said with a faint smile, "'Do you remember when I fell asleep in your parlor? It was the good and rich food. It was so long since I had had food like that.' I took her hand and held it, conscious-stricken, but now she hardly seemed to perceive my touch. "'And the smoking,' she whispered, "'do you remember how you laughed?' I saw it. But I had heard that smoking soothed that one was no longer tired and hungry with a cigar.' In little whispers of this sort, separated by long rests and pauses, the night passed. Once she asked if her aunt was asleep, and when I answered in the affirmative she said, "'Help her to return home. To America. The drama will pay for it. I ought never to have brought her away.' I promised, and she resumed her bright-eyed silence. I think she did not speak again. Toward morning the change came, and soon after sunrise, with her old aunt kneeling by her side, she passed away. All was arranged as she had wished. Her manuscripts covered with violets formed her pillow. No one followed her to the grave save her aunt and myself. I thought she would prefer it so. Her name was not Creef, after all, but Moncreef. I saw it written out by Aunt Martha for the coffin-plate, as follows. Arana Moncreef, aged forty-three years, two months, and eight days. I never knew more of her history than is written here. If there was more than I might have learned it remained unlearned, for I did not ask. And the drama. I keep it here in this locked case. I could have it published at my own expense, but I think that now she knows its faults herself, perhaps, and would not like it. I keep it. And once in a while I read it over. Not as a memento morey exactly, but rather as a memento of my own good fortune, for which I should continually give thanks. The want of one grain made all her work void, and that one grain was given to me. She with the greater power failed. I, with the less, succeeded. But no praise is due to me for that. When I die, armour is to be destroyed unread, not even Isabel is to see it. For women will misunderstand each other. And dear and precious to me as my sweet wife is, I could not bear that she or any one should cast so much as a thought of scorn upon the memory of the writer. Upon my poor dead, unavailable, unaccepted, misgrief. End of section 6