Everybody knows what Newport is in August, and we need not dwell on it.  To Margaret, with its languidly moving pleasures, its well-bred scenery, the luxury that lulled the senses into oblivion of the vulgar struggle and anxiety which ordinarily attend life, it was little less than paradise.  To float along with Carmen, going deeper and deeper into the shifting gayety which made the days fly without thought and with no care for tomorrow, began to seem an admirable way of passing life.  What could one do fitter, after all, for a world hopelessly full of suffering and poverty and discontent, than to set an example of cheerfulness and enjoyment, and to contribute, as occasion offered, to the less fortunate?  Would it help matters to be personally anxious and miserable?  To put a large bill in the plate on Sunday, to open her purse wide for the objects of charity and relief daily presented, was indeed a privilege and a pleasure, and a satisfaction to the conscience which occasionally tripped her in her rapid pace.

“I don’t believe you have a bit of conscience,” said Margaret to Carmen one Sunday, as they walked home from morning service, when Margaret had responded “extravagantly,” as Carmen said, to an appeal for the mission among the city pagans.

“I never said I had, dear.  It must be the most troublesome thing you can carry around with you.  Of course I am interested in the heathen, but charity—­that is where I agree with Uncle Jerry—­begins at home, and I don’t happen to know a greater heathen than I am.”

“If you were as bad as you make yourself out, I wouldn’t walk with you another step.”

“Well, you ask mother.  She was in such a rage one day when I told Mr. Lyon that he’d better look after Ireland than go pottering round among the neglected children.  Not that I care anything about the Irish,” added this candid person.

“I suppose you wanted to make it pleasant for Mr. Lyon?”

“No; for mother.  She can’t get over the idea that she is still bringing me up.  And Mr. Lyon!  Goodness! there was no living with him after his visit to Brandon.  Do you know, Margaret, that I think you are just a little bit sly?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Margaret, looking offended.

“Dear, I don’t blame you,” said the impulsive creature, wheeling short round and coming close to Margaret.  “I’d kiss you this minute if we were not in the public road.”

When Henderson came, Margaret’s world was full; no desire was ungratified.  He experienced a little relief when she did not bother him about his business nor inquire into his operations with Hollowell, and he fancied that she was getting to accept the world as Carmen accepted it.  There had been moments since his marriage when he feared that Margaret’s scruples would interfere with his career, but never a moment when he had doubted that her love for him would be superior to any solicitations from others.  Carmen, who knew him like a book, would have said that the model wife for Henderson would be a woman devoted to him and to his interests, and not too scrupulous.  A wife is a torment, if you can’t feel at ease with her.