e well," said Miss Goucher. "But your long
silence, Mr. Hunt--that I can't understand."

"I can," Susan exclaimed. "Ambo's very bones dislike her. So do mine. Do
you remember how I used to shock you, Ambo, when I first came
here--saying somebody or other was no damn good? Well, I can't help it;
it's stronger than I am. Mrs. Hunt's no----"

"Oh, _child_!" struck in Miss Goucher. "How much you have still to
learn!" Then she addressed me: "I've never seen a more distinguished
person than Mrs. Hunt. I know it's odd, coming from me, but somehow I
sympathize with her--greatly. I've always"--hesitated Miss
Goucher--"been a proud sort of nobody myself."

Susan reached over and slipped her hand into Miss Goucher's. "Poor
Sister! Just as we're going off together you begin to find out how
horrid I can be. But I'll make a little true confession to both of you.
What I've been saying about Mrs. Hunt isn't in the least what I think
about her. The fact is, I'm jealous of her, in so many ways--except in
the ordinary way! To make a clean breast of it, when I was with her she
brought me to my knees in spite of myself. Oh, I acknowledge her power!
It's uncanny. How did you ever find strength to resist it, Ambo? My
outbreak was sheer Birch Street bravado--a cheap insult flung in the
face of the unattainable! It was all my shortcomings throwing mud at all
her disdain. Truly! Why, the least droop of her eyelids taught me that
it takes more than quick wits and sensitive nerves and hard study to
overcome a false start--or rather, no start at all!

"Birch Street isn't even a beginning, because, so far as Mrs. Hunt's
concerned, Birch Street simply doesn't exist! And even Birch Street
would have to admit that she gets away with it! I'd say so, too, if I
didn't go a step farther and feel that it gets away with her. That's why
ridicule can't touch her. You can't laugh at a devotee, a woman
possessed, the instrument of a higher power! Mrs. Hunt's a living
confession of faith in the absolute rightness of the right people, and a
living rebuke to the incurable wrongness of the wrong! Oh, I knew at
once what you meant, Ambo, when you called her a dedicated priestess!
It's the way I shall always think of her--ritually clothed, and pouring
out tea to her gods from sacred vessels of colonial silver! You can
smile, Ambo, but I shall; and way down in my common little Birch Street
heart, I believe I shall always secretly envy her.... So there!"

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