roadcloth regalias, plain but classy. She's a tall, slim
party, and from the three-quarters' view I gets against the light I
should guess she was goin' on thirty or a little past it. All she's armed
with is a roll of paper, and as I steps in she's drummin' with it on the
window sill.

Course, we has all kinds driftin' into the studio here, by mistake and
otherwise, and I gen'rally makes a guess on 'em right; but this one don't
suggest anything at all. Even that rat faced tiger of hers could have
told her this wa'n't any French millinery parlor, and she didn't look
like one who'd get off the trail anyway. So I plays a safety by coughin'
polite behind my hand and lettin' her make the break. She ain't backward
about it, either.

"Why, there you are, Professor McCabe!" says she, in that gushy, up and
down tone, like she was usin' language as some sort of throat gargle.
"How perfectly dear of you to be here, too!"

"Yes, ain't it?" says I. "I've kind of got into the habit of bein'
here."

"Really, now!" says she, smilin' just as though we was carryin' on a
sensible conversation. And it's a swagger stunt too, this talkin' without
sayin' anything. When you get so you can keep it up for an hour you're
qualified either for the afternoon tea class or the batty ward. But the
lady ain't here just to pay a social call. She makes a quick shift and
announces that she's Miss Colliver, also hoping that I remember her.

"Why, sure," says I. "Miss Ann, ain't it?"

As a matter of fact, the only time we was ever within speakin' distance
was once at the Purdy-Pells' when she blew in for a minute just at dinner
time, lifted a bunch of American Beauties off the table with the excuse
that they was just what she wanted to send to the Blind Asylum, and blew
out again.

But of course I couldn't help knowin' who she was and all about her.
Ain't the papers always full of her charity doin's, her funds for this
and that, and her new discoveries of shockin' things about the poor?
Ain't she built up a rep as a lady philanthropist that's too busy doing
good to ever get married? Maybe Mrs. Russell Sage and Helen Gould has
gained a few laps on her lately; but when it comes to startin' things for
the Tattered Tenth there ain't many others that's got much on her.

"Gee!" thinks I. "Wonder what she's going to do for me?"

I ain't left long in doubt. She backs me up against the desk and cuts
loose with the straight talk. "I came in to tell you about