Margaret drew in her lip before she answered, without apparent resentment of the awkwardness or ungraciousness, whichever she found it:  “I don’t wonder!  You become so absorbed in such work that you think nothing else is worth while.  But I’m glad Mr. Dryfoos could come with you; I’m so glad you could all come; I knew you would enjoy the music.  Do sit down—­”

“No,” said Christine, bluntly; “we must be going.  Mela!” she called out, “come!”

The last group about Mrs. Horn looked round, but Christine advanced upon them undismayed, and took the hand Mrs. Horn promptly gave her.  “Well, I must bid you good-night.”

“Oh, good-night,” murmured the elder lady.  “So very kind of you to come.”

“I’ve had the best kind of a time,” said Mela, cordially.  “I hain’t laughed so much, I don’t know when.”

“Oh, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Mrs. Horn, in the same polite murmur she had used with Christine; but she said nothing to either sister about any future meeting.

They were apparently not troubled.  Mela said over her shoulder to the student of human nature, “The next time I see you I’ll give it to you for what you said about Moffitt.”

Margaret made some entreating paces after them, but she did not succeed in covering the retreat of the sisters against critical conjecture.  She could only say to Conrad, as if recurring to the subject, “I hope we can get our friends to play for us some night.  I know it isn’t any real help, but such things take the poor creatures out of themselves for the time being, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” he answered.  “They’re good in that way.”  He turned back hesitatingly to Mrs. Horn, and said, with a blush, “I thank you for a happy evening.”

“Oh, I am very glad,” she replied, in her murmur.

One of the old friends of the house arched her eyebrows in saying good-night, and offered the two young men remaining seats home in her carriage.  Beaton gloomily refused, and she kept herself from asking the student of human nature, till she had got him into her carriage, “What is Moffitt, and what did you say about it?”

“Now you see, Margaret,” said Mrs. Horn, with bated triumph, when the people were all gone.

“Yes, I see,” the girl consented.  “From one point of view, of course it’s been a failure.  I don’t think we’ve given Miss Dryfoos a pleasure, but perhaps nobody could.  And at least we’ve given her the opportunity of enjoying herself.”

“Such people,” said Mrs. Horn, philosophically, “people with their money, must of course be received sooner or later.  You can’t keep them out.  Only, I believe I would rather let some one else begin with them.  The Leightons didn’t come?”

“I sent them cards.  I couldn’t call again.”

Mrs. Horn sighed a little.  “I suppose Mr. Dryfoos is one of your fellow-philanthropists?”

“He’s one of the workers,” said Margaret.  “I met him several times at the Hall, but I only knew his first name.  I think he’s a great friend of Father Benedict; he seems devoted to the work.  Don’t you think he looks good?”