of that redoubtable woman, in spite of her naturally delicate tastes, were governed by one of the most elementary principles of economy.  Through long habit she had acquired a perception as unerring as instinct, and this perception enabled her to tell exactly where extravagance was useful and where it failed in its effect.  She had learned to perfection never to spend money on things that did not show a result.  An appearance was what she strove for, and one’s chemises and nightgowns, however exquisite in themselves, could not very well contribute to one’s external appearance.  “Of course I like good underclothes,” she remarked cheerfully to her daughter-in-law, “but, after all, nobody sees them.”

This was so different from the poverty-stricken point of view of Gabriella’s childhood, that the girl puzzled over it afterwards when she sat in her corner of the stage.  Mrs. Carr had kept up an appearance, too, she reflected, but, like the old maids on the floor above, she had kept it up even to herself.  Perhaps the difference lay in the immense gulf which divided the appearance of Hill Street from the appearance of the East Fifties.  Mrs. Fowler was obliged by the public opinion she obeyed to appear affluent, while Mrs. Carr was merely constrained not to appear destitute.  On the whole Gabriella felt that she preferred the safe middle distance between the two exacting standards of living.

But, though she might disapprove of her mother-in-law’s philosophy, there was no question about her fervent admiration for her disposition.  It was Mrs. Fowler’s habit to appear “sweet,” and never once did Gabriella see her lose her temper, never once, no matter how hard the day or how exasperating the accounts, did she show so much as a passing hint of irritability.  Her temper was so angelic that it was the more surprising George should not have inherited a trace of it.

If George had not inherited his mother’s nature, he revealed, as time went on, even less resemblance to the perfect reasonableness of his father’s temperament.  Ever since her first day in the house, Gabriella had been drawn to her father-in-law with an affection which his wife, for all her preoccupied kindness, had not inspired.  She respected him for his calm strength, against which the boisterous moods of George reacted as harmlessly as the whims of a child, and she liked him for his unfailing courtesy, for his patience, for his gentleness, which made her feel that he was, in spite of the material nature of his occupation, the only member of the household who possessed even a glimmer of spirituality.  All day long, and the greater part of the night, he thought about money, and yet he had escaped the spiritual corruption which the ceaseless pursuit of wealth had produced in the other rich men whom Gabriella met in his house.  It was as if some subtle alchemy in his soul had transmuted the baser qualities into the pure gold of character; and sometimes the girl wondered if the fact that he