In a few moments Mrs. Hastings entered, and if St. George had been bewildered by the room he was still more amazed by the appearance of his hostess.  She was utterly unlike the atmosphere of her drawing-room.  She was a bustling, commonplace little creature, with an expressionless face, indented rather than molded in features.  Her plump hands were covered with jewels, but for all the richness of her gown she gave the impression of being very badly dressed; things of jet and metal bobbed and ticked upon her, and her side-combs were continually falling about.  She sat on the sofa and looked at the seat which St. George was to have and began to talk—­all without taking the slightest heed of him or permitting him to mention the Evening Sentinel or his errand.  If St. George had been painted purple he felt sure that she would have acted quite the same.  Personality meant nothing to her.

“Now this distressing matter, Mr. St. George,” began Mrs. Hastings, “of this frightful mulatto woman.  I didn’t see her myself—­no, I had stopped in on the first floor to visit my lawyer’s wife who was ill with neuralgia, and I didn’t see the creature.  If I had been with my niece I dare say it wouldn’t have occurred.  That’s what I always say to my niece.  I always say, ’Olivia, nothing need occur to vex one.  It always happens because of pure heedlessness.’  Not that I accuse my own niece of heedlessness in this particular.  It was the elevator boy who was heedless.  That is the trouble with life in a great city.  Every breath you draw is always dependent on somebody else’s doing his duty, and when you consider how many people habitually neglect their duty it is a wonder—­I always say that to Olivia—­it is a wonder that anybody is alive to do a duty when it presents itself.  ‘Olivia,’ I always say, ‘nobody needs to die.’  And I really believe that they nearly all do die out of pure heedlessness.  Well, and so this frightful mulatto creature:  you know her, I understand?”

Mrs. Hastings leaned back and consulted St. George through her tortoise-shell glasses, tilting her head high to keep them on her nose and perpetually putting their gold chain over her ear, which perpetually pulled out her side-combs.

“I saw her this morning,” St. George said.  “I went up to the Reformatory in Westchester, and I spoke with her.”

“Mercy!” ejaculated Mrs. Hastings, “I wonder she didn’t tear your eyes out.  Did they have her in a cage or in a cell?  What was the creature about?”

“She was in a missionary meeting at the moment,” St. George explained, smiling.

“Mercy!” said Mrs. Hastings in exactly the same tone.  “Some trick, I expect.  That’s what I warn Olivia:  ’So few things nowadays are done through necessity or design.’  Nearly everything is a trick.  Every invention is a trick—­a cultured trick, one might say.  Murder is a trick, I suppose, to a murderer.  That’s why civilization is bad for morals, don’t you think?  Well, and so she talked with you?”