The three men looked at her at that with a sudden imbecile despair, at which she laughed and went out.

The captain found her presently down by the boat in which she had heard Neckart’s story.  She bailed it out and cleaned it carefully every day, but she had never gone on the river in it since that night.

“Father,” stepping ashore, “what have I done that I must be turned into another woman?”

“Now, Jenny, making models and crabbing were well enough for you as a child.  But, as Waring justly observes, the society to which you belong is inexorable in its rules for a woman.”

She flung out her arms impatiently, and then clasped them above her head.  It seemed as if a thousand fine clammy webs were being spun about her.

“If you had any especial talent, as Waring says—­if you were artistic or musical, or concerned in some asylum-work—­you could take your own path, independent of society.  But—­” looking down at her anxiously.

“I understand.  I don’t know what I was made for.”

It was the first time in her life that she had been driven in to consider herself.  She stood grave and intent, saying nothing for some time.  Every other woman had some definite aim.  The whole world was marching by, keeping step to a neat, orderly little tune.  They made calls, they gave alms, they dressed, all of the same fashion.

“Why not be like other people?” her father was saying, making a burden to her thought.

“I don’t know why,” drearily.

“What would you have, Jenny?” taking her hand in his.

“Father, I never loved but one or two people in the world.  You and Bruno and—­not many others.  I can do nothing outside of them.”

“Nonsense!  You cannot be a law to yourself, child.  God knows I want to see you happy!” his voice breaking.  “But,” straightening his eye-glasses, “Waring says, very justly, you are out of the groove which all other girls are in.”  He stopped inquiringly, but she did not answer.  She was a strongly-built woman in mind and body, and just then she felt her strength.  The blood rushed in a swift current through her veins.  Why should she be hampered with these thousand meaningless, sham duties?  She was fit for but one purpose—­to serve two men whom she loved.  Her father was ill, and he pushed her from him into Society; and Bruce Neckart was alone, and with a worse fate than death creeping on him, and he—­

“Why does not Mr. Neckart come to us?” she asked abruptly.  “It is months since I have seen him.”

“His health is failing.  There is some trouble of the brain threatened.  I hear that he is going to give up the paper, and is settling up his business to go to Europe.”  Her question startled him:  he watched her with a new keen suspicion.

“If this must come on him, why should he not come here to bear it?  I can nurse you both.  Surely, that is as good work as returning calls or learning to dress in Parisian style,” with a short laugh.