“I shall see you then,” said he, at the door, “at seven-thirty.”

“Yes, indeed....  I’ll be quite myself again then.  Au revoir!”

She stood alone, in the dim and silent hall.  The house was sweet with Hugo’s flowers.  Cally, standing, picked a red rose slowly to pieces.  She could pursue her own thoughts now, and her struggle was against thinking ill of her father.  If it was the extreme of sympathy with the poor to regard the Works as a homicidal place, then her present impulse was plainly toward such extremity.  But she dared not allow that impulse its head, fearful of the far-reaching consequences that would thereby be entailed.  Yet, even from the cheeriest view, it was clear that the Works were a pretty bad place—­Hugo himself had tacitly admitted that by the arguments he employed,—­and if that was so, what was to be said for papa?  Possibly she and mamma did have some connection with the business, but it would be simply foolish to say that they were responsible for the overcrowding in the bunching-room.  How could she be—­how could she?—­she, to whom her father had never spoken seriously in his life, who had never even seen the Works inside till to-day?  No, it was papa’s business.  He was responsible; and it was a responsibility indeed....

It was quarter-past five.  So, presently, the tall hall-clock said, on its honor as a reliable timepiece....  Only an hour since she and Hugo had met in front of Morland’s....

Still the girl did not hurry up to her rest-chamber.  She wandered pointlessly from empty hall to silent drawing room.  There had descended upon her that sense of loneliness in the great world, to which in the spring and summer she had been no stranger.  She felt listless and oddly tired.  Presently, when she had thought about it a little, she was certain that she felt quite unwell; almost ill.  The strong probability was that she had a bad sick headache coming on; small wonder, either, after nearly fainting with poor Miller and others at the Works....

Cally considered whether she did not owe it to her health to dine from a tray this evening, giving Hugo to-morrow morning instead.  Even as she revolved this thought—­with especial reference to explaining it to mamma—­there came her humble admirer, Flora Johnson, col’d, saying that Mr. Canning begged to speak to her a minute at the telephone.

“Mr. Canning?”

Flora said yas’m, and flashed her dazzling teeth.  Her mistress ascended the stairs in surprise, wondering what reason Hugo would assign for wanting to come back.

However, Hugo’s intentions were the contrary.  His unhappy request was to be excused from dinner this evening.

The young man’s voice over the wire was at once regretful, annoyed, and (somewhat) apologetic.  There was, it seemed, the devil to pay over certain entanglements of the rate-case matter.  He had found Mr. Deming, of his law firm, waiting for him at the hotel.  Mr. Deming had come for a conference which could not be postponed; he had to get back to Washington by the nine-thirty train.  Would Carlisle make his excuses to Mrs. Heth, and know for herself how disappointed he was?