simple old women, and dying of
shame, I heard the other day, for what has befallen herself and her
children through the delusions and misconduct of an infatuated man who
has grandchildren older than this 'harmonious partner' he introduces as
his wife here abroad. The 'first Mrs. Wardle!' It made me think of one
of our Jerseymen who begged that a certain hymn might be sung at his
wife's funeral 'because the corpse was particular fond of that hymn!'"

When I could speak for laughter, I inquired, "But is this then a
spiritualistic headquarters? Because Mrs. Malise pointed out Dodge, the
medium, to me early in the evening?"

"No, not more than of all other insanities, crudities, and
unconventionalities--conventionalities too; for with perhaps one
exception, all the members of the household, whatever their opinions,
are to the last degree rigid as to the proprieties. But at one time or
another one meets here all shades of belief and non-belief--much of the
orthodox and I should say all the heterodox London. Very curious I find
it, and though sometimes outraged, as to-night, I'm oftener amused with
my 'proper study of mankind.' But you, as an Englishwoman, would hardly
conceive how droll to me was my first experience of one of these
receptions. You know, of course, at once, as everybody does, that I'm a
Yankee? I came in rather late one evening with an English artist friend,
and found, enthroned in the other room, the centre of a throng of bowing
gentlemen, a woman as black as the chimney back, her neck and arms bare,
white gloves, a gilt comb and white ostrich feather in her woolly
hair--a genuine darkey! and Mme. V.--the artist, Mme. V.--hurried up to
me. 'Oh, do you know your accomplished countrywoman, Miss Symonds? No?
Then pray let me introduce you to her, we find her so charming!' And I
dare say she was charming, only it was very queer at first to encounter
Chloe _en reme_!"

Then we had a long talk, getting speedily away from persons and things
to the old familiar subject--art. How the girl is working! And how happy
and absorbed in her work she is.

"Oh, Ronayne," I said, as we settled back in the carriage for our drive
home, "do I smell of turpentine and paint rags? I had such a good time!
Miss Hedges and I talked shop for a whole hour."

And then, and later, we compared notes. He was critical, but had been
amused, and, trust me, I had the wit to hold my tongue about "the first
Mrs. Wardle!"

For over and above