She wrote, whenever it was her turn to do so, papers upon every imaginable subject.  She balked at nothing whatever.  She ranged from household discussions to the Orient.  Then she stood up in the midst of the women, sunk her double chin in her lace collar, and read her paper in a voice like the whisper of a blade of grass.  Doctor Sturtevant had a very low voice.  His wife had naturally a strident one, but she essayed to follow him in the matter of voice, as in all other things.  The poor hen bird tried to voice her thoughts like her mate, and the result was a strange and weird note.  However, Mrs. Sturtevant herself was not aware of the result.  When she sat down after finishing her papers her face was always becomingly flushed with pleasure.

Nothing, not even pleasure, was becoming to Mrs. Sturtevant.  Life itself was unbecoming to her, and the worst of it was nobody knew it, and everybody said it was due to Mrs. Sturtevant’s lack of taste, and then they pitied the great doctor anew.  It was very fortunate that it never occurred to Mrs. Sturtevant to pity the doctor on her account, for she was so fond of him, poor soul, that it might have led to a tragedy.

The Zenith Club of Fairbridge always met on Friday afternoons.  It was a cherished aim of the Club to uproot foolish superstitions, hence Friday.  It did not seem in the least risky to the ordinary person for a woman to attend a meeting of the Zenith Club on a Friday, in preference to any other day in the week; but many a member had a covert feeling that she was somewhat heroic, especially if the meeting was held at the home of some distant member on an icy day in winter, and she was obliged to make use of a livery carriage.

There were in Fairbridge three keepers of livery stables, and curiously enough, no rivalry between them.  All three were natives of the soil, and somewhat sluggish in nature, like its sticky red shale.  They did not move with much enthusiasm, neither were they to be easily removed.  When the New York trains came in, they, with their equally indifferent drivers, sat comfortably ensconced in their carriages, and never waylaid the possible passengers alighting from the train.  Sometimes they did not even open the carriage doors, but they, however, saw to it that they were closed when once the passenger was within, and that was something.  All three drove indifferent horses, somewhat uncertain as to footing.  When a woman sat behind these weak-kneed, badly shod steeds and realised that Stumps, or Fitzgerald, or Witless was driving with an utter indifference to the tightening of lines at dangerous places, and also realised that it was Friday, some strength of character was doubtless required.