The house, a small brick dwelling, set midway of an expressionless row and wearing on its front a look of desiccated gentility, stood in one of those forgotten streets where needy gentlewomen do “light housekeeping” in an obscure hinterland of respectability.  Hill Street, which had once known fashion, and that only yesterday, as old ladies count, had sunk at last into a humble state of decay.  Here and there the edges of porches had crumbled; grass was beginning to sprout by the curbstone; and the once comfortable homes had opened their doors to boarders or let their large, high-ceiled rooms to the impoverished relicts of Confederate soldiers.  Only a few blocks away the stream of modern progress, sweeping along Broad Street, was rapidly changing the old Southern city into one of those bustling centres of activity which the press of the community agreed to describe as “a metropolis”; but this river of industrialism was spanned by no social bridge connecting Hill Street and its wistful relicts with the statelier dignities and the more ephemeral gaieties of the opposite side.  To be really “in society” one must cross over, either for good and all, or in the dilapidated “hack” which carried Gabriella to the parties of her schoolmates in West Franklin Street.

For in the middle ’nineties, before social life in Richmond had become both complicated and expensive, it was still possible for a girl in Gabriella’s position—­provided, of course, she came of a “good family”—­to sew all day over the plain sewing of her relatives, and in the evening to reign as the acknowledged belle of a ball.  “Society,” it is true, did not reach any longer, except in the historic sense, to Hill Street; but the inhabitants of Hill Street, if they were young and energetic, not infrequently made triumphant excursions into “society.”  Though Gabriella was poor and sewed for her living, she had been, from the moment she left school, one of the most popular girls in town.  To be sure, she was neither so pretty as Florrie Spencer nor so clever as Julia Caperton, but in the words of Julia’s brother Algernon, she was “the sort you could count on.”  Even in her childhood it had become the habit of those about her to count on Gabriella.  Without Gabriella, her mother was fond of saying, it would have been impossible to keep a roof over their heads.

Twelve years before, when they had moved into the house in Hill Street, Mrs. Carr had accepted from Jimmy Wrenn the rent of the first floor and the outside kitchen, which was connected with the back porch by a winding brick walk, overgrown with wild violets, while the upper story was let to two elderly spinsters, bearing the lordly, though fallen, name of Peterborough.  These spinsters, like Mrs. Carr, spent their lives in a beautiful and futile pretence—­the pretence of keeping up an appearance.  They also took in the plain sewing of their richer relatives, who lived in Franklin Street, and sent them little trays of