ought I would
speak to you on my way back from church. I don't suppose you've ever
heard of me, but I am your cousin Priscilla Batte."

Though he was entirely unaware of it, the moment was a momentous one in
his experience. The visit of Miss Priscilla may have appeared an
insignificant matter to those who have not learned that the
insignificant is merely the significant seen from another angle--but the
truth was that it marked a decisive milestone in his emotional history.
Even Mrs. Peachey, who had walked back from church with her, and who
harboured the common delusion that Life selects only slim bodies for its
secret agents, did not dream as she watched that enormous figure toil up
the staircase that she was gazing upon the movement of destiny. Had
Oliver been questioned as to the dominant influence in shaping his
career, he would probably have answered blindly, but sincerely, "The
Critique of Pure Reason"--so far was he from suspecting that his
philosophy had less control over his future than had the accident that
his mother was the third cousin of Priscilla Batte.

He pushed a chair into the widest space he could find, and she seated
herself as modestly as if she were not the vehicle of the invisible
Powers. The stiff grosgrain strings of her bonnet stood out like small
wings under her double chin, and on her massive bosom he saw the cameo
brooch bearing the war-like profile of Athene. As she sat there, beaming
complacently upon him, with her prayer-book and hymnal held at a decent
angle in front of her, she seemed to Oliver to dominate the situation
simply by the solid weight of her physical presence. In her single
person she managed to produce the effect of a majority. As a mere mass
of humanity she carried conviction.

"I was sorry not to see you at church," she said, "but I suppose you
went with Cyrus." As he shook his head silently, she added hastily, "I
hope there's nothing wrong between you and him."

"Nothing except that I have decided not to go into the tobacco
business."

"But what in the world are you going to do? How are you going to live if
he doesn't provide for you?"

"Oh, I'll manage somehow. You needn't worry, Cousin Priscilla." He
smiled at her across the unfinished page of his play, and this smile won
her as it had won Mrs. Peachey. Like most spinsters she had remained a
creature of sentiment, and the appeal of the young and masculine she
found difficult to resist. After all he was a charmi