evening.

Even though a lover, Millard did not lose his characteristic
thoughtfulness. Knowing that early rest was important for the mother,
and conjecturing that she slept just behind the sliding-doors, Charley
did not allow himself to outstay his time. It was only when he had taken
his hat to leave that he got courage to ask Phillida if she were
engaged for the next afternoon. When she said no, he proposed the
theater. Phillida would have refused the invitation an hour before, but
in the tenderness of parting she had a remorseful sense of pain
regarding the whole interview. With a scrupulousness quite
characteristic she had begun to blame herself. To refuse the invitation
to the Irving matinee would be to add to an undefined estrangement which
both felt but refused to admit, and so, with her mind all in a jumble,
she said: "Yes; certainly. I'll go if you would like me to, Charley."

But she lay awake long that night in dissatisfaction with herself. She
had gained nothing with Charley, her ideals had been bruised and broken,
her visions of future personal excellence were now confused, and she was
committed to give valuable time to what seemed to her a sort of
dissipation. Would she never be able to emulate Mrs. Fry? Would the
lofty aspiration she had cherished prove beyond her reach? And then,
once, just once, there intruded the unwelcome thought that her
engagement with Millard was possibly a mistake, and that it might defeat
the great ends she had in view. The thought was too painful for her; she
banished it instantly, upbraiding herself for her disloyalty, and
replacing the image of her lover on its pedestal again. Was not Charley
the best of men? Had he not been liberal to the Mission and generous to
Mina Schulenberg? Then she planned again the work they would be able to
accomplish together, she diligent, and he liberal, until thoughts of
this sort mingled with her dreams.

She went to see Irving's _Shylock_. The spectacular street scenes
interested her; the boat that sailed so gracefully on the dry land of
the stage excited her curiosity; and she felt the beauty and artistic
delicacy of the _Portia_. But she was ill at ease through it all. She
was too much in the mood of a moralist to see the play merely as a work
of art; she could not keep her mind from reverting to matters having
nothing to do with the play, such as the versatility of an actress's
domestic relations. And she could not but feel that in so far