And just here the Scribe remarks, parenthetically, that there is nothing that shows a woman’s refinement more clearly than the way she crosses a street.

Miss Felicia, for instance, would no more have soiled the toes of her shoes in a puddle than a milk-white pussy would have dampened its feet in the splash of an overturned bowl:  a calm survey up and down; a taking in of the dry and wet spots; a careful gathering up of her skirts, and over skimmed the slender, willowy old lady with a one—­two—­and three—­followed by a stamp of her absurd feet and the shaking out of ruffle and pleat.  When a woman strides through mud without a shiver because she has plenty of dry shoes and good ones at home, there are other parts of her make-up, inside and out, that may want a looking after.

Miss Felicia safely landed on the dry and comparatively clean sidewalk, Peter put the question he had been framing in his mind since he first caught sight of that lady picking her way among the puddles.

“Well, how is he now?”

“His head, or his heart?” she asked with a knowing smile, dropping her still spotless skirts.  “Both are broken; the last into smithereens.  It is hopeless.  He will never be any better.  Oh, Peter, what a mess you have made of things!”

“What have I done?” he laughed.

“Got these two people dead in love with each other,—­both of them —­Ruth is just as bad—­and no more chance of their ever being married than you or I. Perfectly silly, Peter, and I have always told you so—­and now you will have to take the consequences.”

“Beautiful—­beautiful!” chuckled Peter; “everything is coming my way.  I was sure of Jack, for he told me so, but Ruth puzzled me.  Did she tell you she loved him?”

“No, stupid, of course she did not.  But have I not a pair of eyes in my head?  What do you suppose I got up for this morning at such an unearthly hour and went over to—­Oh, such an awful place!—­to see that idiot?  Just to tell him I was sorry?  Not a bit of it!  I went to find out what was going on, and now I know; and what is to become of it all nobody can tell.  Here is her father with every penny he has in the world in this work—­so Holker tells me—­and here are a lot of damages for dead men and Heaven knows what else; and there is Jack Breen with not a penny to his name except his month’s wages; and here is Ruth who can marry anybody she chooses, bewitched by that boy—­and I grant you she has every reason for he is as brave as he can be, and what is better he is a gentleman.  And there lies Henry MacFarlane blind as a bat as to what is going on!  Oh!—­really, Peter, there cannot be anything more absurd.”

During the outbreak Peter stood leaning on his umbrella, a smile playing over his smooth-shaven face, his eyes snapping as if at some inwardly suppressed fun.  These were the kind of outbursts Peter loved.  It was only when Felicia was about to come over to your way of thinking that she talked like this.  It was her way of hearing the other side.