of acquiescence that she was really charming, and Von Rosen had spoken the truth.  He had wondered, when he saw the eagerly tilted faces of the women, and heard their bursts of shrill laughter and clapping of hands, why he could not hold them with his sermons which, he might assume without vanity, contained considerable subject for thought, as this woman, with her face like a mask of mirth, held them with her compilation of platitudes.

He thought that he had never seen so many women listen with such intensity, and lack of self-consciousness.  He had seen only two pat their hair, only one glance at her glittering rings, only three arrange the skirts of their gowns while the lecture was in progress.  Sometimes during his sermons, he felt as if he were holding forth to a bewildering sea of motion with steadily recurrent waves, which fascinated him, of feathers, and flowers, swinging fur tails, and kid-gloved hands, fluttering ribbons, and folds of drapery.  Karl von Rosen would not have acknowledged himself as a woman-hater, that savoured too much of absurd male egotism, but he had an under conviction that women were, on the whole, admitting of course exceptions, self-centered in the pursuit of petty ends to the extent of absolute viciousness.  He disliked women, although he had never owned it to himself.

In spite of his dislike of women, Von Rosen had a house-keeper.  He had made an ineffectual trial of an ex-hotel chef, but had finally been obliged to resort to Mrs. Jane Riggs.  She was tall and strong, wider-shouldered than hipped.  She went about her work with long strides.  She never fussed.  She never asked questions.  In fact, she seldom spoke.

When Von Rosen entered his house that night, after the club meeting, he had a comfortable sense of returning to an embodied silence.  The coal fire in his study grate was red and clear.  Everything was in order without misplacement.  That was one of Jane Riggs’ chief talents.  She could tidy things without misplacing them.  Von Rosen loved order, and was absolutely incapable of keeping it.  Therefore Jane Riggs’ orderliness was as balm.  He sat down in his Morris chair before his fire, stretched out his legs to the warmth, which was grateful after the icy outdoor air, rested his eyes upon a plaster cast over the chimney place, which had been tinted a beautiful hue by his own pipe, and sighed with content.  His own handsome face was rosy with the reflection of the fire, his soul rose-coloured with complete satisfaction.  He was so glad to be quit of that crowded assemblage of eager femininity, so glad that it was almost worth while to have encountered it just for that sense of blessed relief.