Night-Thoughts on the Hardness of Religious Fellows, compelling you to be Hard, too; Happier Things again, such as Hugo, Europe, Trousseaux, etc.; concluding with a Letter from Texas and a Little Vulgarian in a Red Hat.

The tireless William retraced the wet streets to the Dabney House in ample time for Mrs. Heth, but the Chairman of the Finance Committee, being in agreeable converse with fellow philanthropists, came home in Mrs. Byrd’s car instead, after all.  Accordingly she did not say to William, “Miss Carlisle decided not to come, Banks?”—­which she liked to call William for the English sound of it—­and Banks, or William, did not look respectfully surprised and say, “Yas’m, she came ...”

Arriving at home, the good little lady presently ascended to the third floor, where she entered her daughter’s room without knocking, according to her wont.  However, Carlisle had been ready for her for some time.

“You stayed,” was mamma’s arch conjecture, “to write a ream to Hugo, dear fellow, I suppose?...”

“No, I went!” said Cally, now in the last stages of an evening toilette.  “Only when I got there, and peeped in, it all looked so dreary and hopeless that my heart failed me, and I turned right around and came back!  Was it—­”

“You did!  How long were you there?  There’s a little too much powder on your nose, my dear—­there!  Did you come upstairs?”

“Oh, no!  I just slipped in for a moment or two and glanced about that queer old court downstairs.  Quaint and interesting, isn’t it?  How was the meeting?”

“Most interesting and gratifying,” said mamma, sinking into a rose-lined chair.  “We begin a noble work.  You may go now, Flora.  I am made a governor, as well as chairman of the most important committee....”

She monologized for some time, in a rich vein of reminiscence and autobiography, revealing among other things that she had rather broadly hinted, to Mrs. Byrd and others, who was the anonymous donor of the Settlement House; a certain wealthy New Yorker, to wit.  However, it was clear that she saw nothing amiss, nor did she say anything more germane to her daughter’s inner drama than, in the moment of parting: 

“Rub your cheeks a little with the soft cloth.  You look quite pale.”

Carlisle rubbed faithfully, aware of a lump of lead where her heart should have been.  Later she went downstairs, and then on for dinner at the McVeys’.  Most grateful she was for this mental distraction; to-night she would have played three-hand bridge with papa and Mattie Allen with enthusiasm.