en, and you will hear them try to----"

But the lady who had mentioned Brainard Macauley cried indignantly: "You
try to change the subject the moment it threatens to be interesting.
They were together everywhere until the day she went away; they danced
and 'sat out' together through the whole of one country-club party;
they drove every afternoon; they took long walks, and he was at the
Sherwoods' every evening of her last week in town. 'That is a mistake!'"

"I'm afraid it looks rather bleak for Wetherford," said the widower. "I
went up to the 'Journal' office on business, one day, and there sat Miss
Sherwood in Macauley's inner temple, chatting with a reporter, while
Brainard finished some work."

"Helen is eccentric," said the former speaker, "but she's not quite that
eccentric, unless they were engaged. It is well understood that they
will announce it in the fall."

Miss Hinsdale kindly explained to Harkless that Brainard Macauley was
the editor of the "Rouen Morning Journal"--"a very distinguished young
man, not over twenty-eight, and perfectly wonderful." Already a power
to be accounted with in national politics, he was "really a tremendous
success," and sure to go far; "one of those delicate-looking men, who
are yet so strong you know they won't let the lightning hurt you." It
really looked as if Helen Sherwood (whom Harkless really ought to meet)
had actually been caught in the toils at tet, those toils wherein so
many luckless youths had lain enmeshed for her sake. He must meet Mr.
Macauley, too, the most interesting man in Rouen. After her little
portrait of him, didn't Mr. Harkless agree that it looked really pretty
dull for Miss Sherwood's other lovers?

Mr. Harkless smiled, and agreed that it did indeed. She felt a thrill of
compassion for him, and her subsequent description of the pathos of
his smile was luminous. She said it was natural that a man who had been
through so much suffering from those horrible "White-Cappers" should
have a smile that struck into your heart like a knife.

Despite all that Meredith could do, and after his notorious effort to
shift the subject he could do very little, the light prattle ran on
about Helen Sherwood and Brainard Macauley. Tom abused himself for his
wild notion of cheering his visitor with these people who had no talk,
and who, if they drifted out of commonplace froth, had no medium to
float them unless they sailed the currents, of local personality, and he
ment