blime,
especially the conscious tension of poor Olive, who would have been
spared none of the anxieties and tremors, none of the previsions of
accident or calculations of failure. In the front of the stage was a
slim, high desk, like a music-stand, with a cover of red velvet, and
near it was a light ornamental chair, on which he was sure Verena would
not seat herself, though he could fancy her leaning at moments on the
back. Behind this was a kind of semicircle of a dozen arm-chairs, which
had evidently been arranged for the friends of the speaker, her sponsors
and patrons. The hall was more and more full of premonitory sounds;
people making a noise as they unfolded, on hinges, their seats, and
itinerant boys, whose voices as they cried out "Photographs of Miss
Tarrant--sketch of her life!" or "Portraits of the Speaker--story of her
career!" sounded small and piping in the general immensity. Before
Ransom was aware of it several of the arm-chairs, in the row behind the
lecturer's desk, were occupied, with gaps, and in a moment he
recognised, even across the interval, three of the persons who had
appeared. The straight-featured woman with bands of glossy hair and
eyebrows that told at a distance, could only be Mrs. Farrinder, just as
the gentleman beside her, in a white overcoat, with an umbrella and a
vague face, was probably her husband Amariah. At the opposite end of the
row were another pair, whom Ransom, unacquainted with certain chapters
of Verena's history, perceived without surprise to be Mrs. Burrage and
her insinuating son. Apparently their interest in Miss Tarrant was more
than a momentary fad, since--like himself--they had made the journey
from New York to hear her. There were other figures, unknown to our
young man, here and there, in the semicircle; but several places were
still empty (one of which was of course reserved for Olive), and it
occurred to Ransom, even in his preoccupation, that one of them ought to
remain so--ought to be left to symbolise the presence, in the spirit, of
Miss Birdseye.

He bought one of the photographs of Verena, and thought it shockingly
bad, and bought also the sketch of her life, which many people seemed to
be reading, but crumpled it up in his pocket for future consideration.
Verena was not in the least present to him in connexion with this
exhibition of enterprise and puffery; what he saw was Olive, struggling
and yielding, making every sacrifice of taste for the sake of th