“Mr. Latham had an idea of taking it and giving it to Sylvia, but they wouldn’t have that either,—­are just fixing up the old house a bit, and going to summer at the farm, while the old lady will keep on selling eggs the same as ever.  Not but what she’s a thoroughbred all right, though in a cheap stable.  I was down at Vivvy’s the day she came to call on Sylvia!  Just as quiet and cool, except that her hands in the openwork silk mits shook, as if her son was a duke.  I thought there would be a lively row, and I wished myself out of it, but Vivvy hadn’t a chance to strike out until the old lady got up to go, then she only said:  ’You must not understand that I approve of Sylvia’s folly, or in any way give my consent to this rash engagement.  I cannot prevent it, that is all.’

“The old lady’s eyes flashed, and I thought, now for it; but she only looked Vivvy through and through, and said very clearly:  ’Most brides are better for their mother’s blessing, but under the circumstances I think we prefer to do without it.’”

Well-meaning Lady of the Bluffs, I’m really acquiring a sort of affection for her in spite of her crudity.  If all the Whirlpoolers were like her, the pool might be a noisy torrent, but never a dangerous one.

* * * * *

This is Lavinia Dorman’s last day with me, and I know she is really sorry to go, in spite of a sort of pleasurable responsibility and excitement she feels in managing Sylvia’s affairs for a time.

She waked up with a bad headache—­a rare thing for her—­and after breakfast seemed so forlorn and blue that I coaxed her into my room and petted her for a while, almost as I would one of the children; and as she no longer conceals the fact of the false front from me, I took it off, brushed and brushed her lovely hair until it grew supple and alive, and began to glisten, and the pain gradually slipped through it into the air; then I drew it up cushionwise from her forehead and coiled it loosely on top, and she, declaring that my fingers had a magic touch, spent the rest of the morning at my desk in writing letters.

The lovable woman who has no one specially to love her is a common tragedy of everyday life.  Strangely enough it more often draws ridicule than sympathy, and it seems to be always considered the woman’s own fault, instead of a combination of circumstances, woven often of self-sacrifice, mistaken duty, and the studied suppression of natural emotions.

I think that both Miss Lavinia and Martin Cortright dread the going back to their old existence, and yet I am not sure that either of them would consent to change it in any way, in spite of their growlings at the modern conditions of life in New York.  They have learned to lean upon the very restrictions that cramp them, until the idea of cutting free seems as impossible as for the bulky woman to sever the stay-lace that at once suffocates and supports her.