There was all the news to tell, the harmless gossip of daily life, which Edith had a rare faculty of making dramatically entertaining, with her insight and her feeling for comedy.  There had been a musicale at the Blunts’—­oh, strictly amateur—­and Edith ran to the piano and imitated the singers and took off the players, until Jack declared that it beat the Conventional Club out of sight.  And she had been to a parlor mind-cure lecture, and to a Theosophic conversation, and to a Reading Club for the Cultivation of a Feeling for Nature through Poetry.  It was all immensely solemn and earnest.  And Jack wondered that the managers did not get hold of these things and put them on the stage.  Nothing could draw like them.  Not burlesques, though, said Edith; not in the least.  If only these circles would perform in public as they did in private, how they would draw!

And then Father Damon had been to consult her about his fund.  He had been ill, and would not stay, and seemed more severe and ascetic than ever.  She was sure something was wrong.  For Dr. Leigh, whom she had sought out several times, was reserved, and did not voluntarily speak of Father Damon; she had heard that he was throwing himself with more than his usual fervor into his work.  There was plenty to talk about.  The purchase of the farm by the sea had better not be delayed; Jack might have to go down and see the owner.  Yes, he would make it his first business in the morning.  Perhaps it would be best to get some Long-Islander to buy it for them.

By the time it was ten o’clock, Jack said he thought he would step down to the Union a moment.  Edith’s countenance fell.  There might be letters, he explained, and he had a little matter of business; he wouldn’t be late.

It was very agreeable, home was, and Edith was charming.  He could distinctly feel that she was charming.  But Jack was restless.  He felt the need of talking with somebody about what was on his mind.  If only with Major Fairfax.  He would not consult the Major, but the latter was in the way of picking up all sorts of gossip, both social and Street gossip.

And the Major was willing to unpack his budget.  It was not very reassuring, what he had to tell; in fact, it was somewhat depressing, the general tightness and the panicky uncertainty, until, after a couple of glasses of Scotch, the financial world began to open a little and seem more hopeful.

“The Hendersons are going to build,” Jack said at length, after a remark of the Major’s about that famous operator.

“Build?  What for?  They’ve got a palace.”

“Carmen says it’s for an object-lesson.  To show New York millionaires how to adorn their city.”

“It’s like that little schemer.  What does Henderson say?”