I wish that I might give some sense of the speaker’s mastery of this situation, the extent to which she had communicated her good-humour to the crowd.  You heard ripple after ripple of laughter, you saw everywhere about you eager faces, following every turn of the argument.  No one could resist the contagion of interest—­save only the American millionaire!  He stood impassive, never once smiling, never once betraying a trace of feeling.  Venturing to watch him more closely, however, I could see the stern lines deepening about his mouth, and his long, lean face growing more set.

The speaker had outlined the remedy—­a change from the system of production for profit to one of production for use.  She went on to explain how the change was coming; the lunatic classes were beginning to doubt the divine nature of the rules of the asylum, and they were preparing to mutiny, and take possession of the place.  And here I saw that Sylvia’s husband had reached his limit.  He turned to her:  “Haven’t you had enough of this?”

“Why, no,” she began.  “If you don’t mind—­”

“I do mind very much,” he said, abruptly.  “I think you are committing a breach of taste to stay here, and I would be greatly obliged if you would leave.”

And without really waiting for Sylvia’s reply, he directed, “Back out of here, Ferris.”

The chauffeur cranked up, and sounded his horn—­which naturally had the effect of disturbing the meeting.  People supposed we were going to try to get through the crowd ahead—­and there was no place where anyone could move.  But van Tuiver went to the rear of the car, saying, in a voice of quiet authority:  “A little room here, please.”  And so, foot by foot, we backed away from the meeting, and when we had got clear of the throng, the master of the car stepped in, and we turned and made our way down Broad Street.

And now I was to get a lesson in the aristocratic ideal.  Of course van Tuiver was angry; I believe he even suspected his wife of having known of the meeting.  I supposed he would ask some questions; I supposed that at least he would express his opinion of the speech, his disgust that a woman of education should make such a spectacle of herself.  Such husbands as I had been familiar with had never hesitated to vent their feelings under such circumstances.  But from Douglas van Tuiver there came—­not a word!  He sat, perfectly straight, staring before him, like a sphinx; and Sylvia, after one or two swift glances at him, began to gossip cheerfully about her plans for the day-nursery for working-women!

So for a few blocks, until suddenly she leaned forward.  “Stop here, Ferris.”  And then, turning to me, “Here is the American Trust Company.”

“The American Trust Company?” I echoed, in my dumb stupidity.

“Yes—­that is where the check is payable,” said Sylvia, and gave me a pinch.

And so I comprehended, and gathered up my belongings and got out.  She shook my hand warmly, and her husband raised his hat in a very formal salute, after which the car sped on up the street.  I stood staring after it, in somewhat the state of mind of any humble rustic who may have been present when Elijah was borne into the heavens by the chariot of fire!