I was surprised when I comprehended the meaning of this apparent isolation of herself by Mrs. Dewey, and saw, in progress, the ban of social ostracism.  While I pitied the victim, I was glad that we had virtue enough, even among our weak-minded votaries of fashion, to stamp with disapproval the conduct of which she had been guilty.

“I saw Mrs. Dewey this morning,” said my wife, one day, late in November.  “She was in at Howard’s making some purchases.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Yes, we passed a few words.  How much she has changed!”

“For the worse?”

“Yes.  She appears five years older than she did last summer, and has such a sad, disappointed look, that I could not help pitying her from my heart.”

“There are few who need your pity more, Constance.  I think she must be wretched almost beyond endurance.  So young, and the goblet which held the shine of her life broken, and all its precious contents spilled in the thirsty sand at her feet.  Every one seems to have receded from her.”

“The common sentiment is against her; and yet, I am of those who never believed her any thing worse than indiscreet.”

“Her indiscretion was in itself a heinous offence against good morals,” said I; “and while she has my compassion, I have no wish to see a different course of treatment pursued towards her.”

“I haven’t much faith in the soundness of this common sentiment against her,” replied Constance.  “There is in it some self-righteousness, a good deal of pretended horror at her conduct, but very little real virtuous indignation.  It is my opinion that eight out of ten of her old fashionable friends would be just as intimate with her as ever, though they knew all about the affair at Saratoga, if they only were in the secret.  It is in order to stand well with the world that they lift their hands in pretended holy horror.”

“We cannot expect people to act from any higher principles than they possess,” said I; “and it is something gained to good morals, when even those who are corrupt in heart affect to be shocked at departures from virtue in their friends.”

“Yes, I can see that.  Still, when I look beneath the surface, I feel that, so far as the motives are concerned, a wrong has been done; and my soul stirs with a feeling of pity towards Mrs. Dewey, and indignation against her heartless friends.  Do you know, dear, that since I met her this morning, I have had serious thoughts of calling upon her?”

“You!”

Constance gave me one of her placid smiles in answer to my surprised ejaculation.

“Yes; why not?”

“What will people say?”

“I can tell you what they will not say,” she replied,

“Well?”

“They will not say, as they do of her, that of all men, I care least for my husband.”

“I am not afraid of their saying that; but—­”

I was a little bewildered by this unexpected thought on the part of my wife, and did not at first see the matter clear.