On the whole, Mrs. De Peyster’s concern over her condition was rather more acute than society’s.  But she had begun to recover in a degree, and was now, though palpitant within, making a furtive study of Mary.  Such light as there was fell full upon that small person.  Mrs. De Peyster saw a dark, piquant face, with features not regular, but ever in motion and quick with expression—­eyes of a deep, deep brown, with a glimmer of red in them, eyes that gave out an ever-changing sparkle of sympathy and mischief and intelligence—­and a mass of soft dark hair, most unstylishly, most charmingly arranged, that caught some of the muffled light and softly glowed with a reddish tone.  If there was anything vulgar, or commonplace, about Jack’s wife, the shaded bulb was too kindly disposed to betray it to Mrs. De Peyster’s scrutiny.

Suddenly Mary laughed—­softly, musically.

“If Jack’s mother ever dreamed what Jack and I are doing here!  Oh—­oh!  Some day, after she’s forgiven us—­if ever she does forgive us—­You’ve said you’re sure she’ll forgive us, Matilda; do you honestly, truly, cross-your-heartly, believe she will?”

“Y-e-s,” said Mrs. De Peyster’s numb lips.

“I do hope so, for Jack’s sake!” sighed the little person.  “After she forgives us, I’m going to ’fess up everything.  Of course she’ll be scandalized—­for what we’re doing is simply awful!—­but all the same I’ll tell her.  And after she’s forgiven us, I’ll make her forgive you, too, Matilda, for your part in harboring us here.  We’ll see that you do not suffer.”

Mrs. De Peyster realized that she should have expressed thanks at this point.  But silence she considered better than valor.

“This paper prints that picture of her by M. Dubois again.  Really, Matilda, is she as terribly dignified as that makes her look?”

Mrs. De Peyster had to speak.  “I—­I—­hardly, ma’am.”

“There you go with that ‘ma’am’ again!”

“Hardly, Mary,” mumbled Mrs. De Peyster.

“Because if she looks anything like that picture, it must simply scare you to death to live with her.  Did she ever bend her back?”

Silence.

“Or smile?”

Silence.

“Or forget that she was a De Peyster?”

Silence.

“The lady of that picture never did!” declared the little person with conviction.  “She’s just dignity and pride—­calm, remote, lofty, icebergy pride.  She can say her ancestors backwards.  Why, she’s her family tree, petrified!”

Mrs. De Peyster did not feel called upon to add to these remarks.

“I don’t see how she can possibly like me!” cried the little person.  “Do you, Matilda?”

“I suppose—­you can—­only wait—­and see,” replied Mrs. De Peyster.

“I haven’t got any dignity, or any money, or any ancestors; only a father and a couple of grandfathers—­though I dare say there were some Morgans before them.  No, she’ll never care for me—­never!” wailed the little person.  “She couldn’t!  Why, she’s carved out of a solid block of dignity!  She never did an un-De-Peyster thing in her life!”