ought than for the fact that I had drowned that sputtering hiss-ss-ss
inside of me, and that Latimer was among them.

I gave them Warfield, then; I was always good at taking off the
sheenies in the alley behind the Cruelty--remember? I gave them that
little pinch-nosed Maude Adams, and dry, corking little Mrs. Fiske, and
Henry Miller when he smooths down his white breeches lovingly and sings
Sally in our Alley, and strutting old Mansfield, and--

Say, isn't it funny, Mag, that I've seen 'em all and know all they can
do? They've been my college education, that crowd. Not a bad one,
either, when you come to think of what I wanted from it.

They pulled the curtains down at the end and I went back to the
bedroom. I had my hat and jacket on when Mrs. Gates and some of the
younger ladies came to see me there, but I caught no glimpse of
Latimer. You'd think--wouldn't you--that he'd have made an opportunity
to say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft voice of his? I
tried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really seen me, lying down, as
he must have been, or that he hadn't recognized me, but I knew that I
couldn't make myself believe that; and the lack of just that word from
him spoiled all my satisfaction with myself, and I walked out with Mrs.
Gates through the hall and past the dining-room feeling as hurt as
though I'd deserved that a man like Latimer should notice me.

The dining-room was all lighted, but empty--the colored, shaded
candlesticks glowing down on the cut glass and silver, on delicate
china and flowers. The ladies and gentlemen hadn't come out to supper
yet; at least, only one was there. He was standing with his back to
me, before the sideboard, pouring out a glass of something from a
decanter. He turned at the rustle of my starched skirt, and, as I
passed the door, he saw me. I saw him, too, and hurried away.

Yes, I knew him. Just you wait.

I got home here earlier than I'd expected, and I'd just got off my hat
and jacket and put away that snug little check when there came a ring
at the bell.

I thought it was you, Mag--that you'd forgotten your key. I was so
sure of it that I pulled the door open wide with a flourish and--

And admitted--Edward!

Yes, Edward, husband of the Dowager. The same red-faced, big-necked
old fellow, husky-voiced with whisky now, just as he was before. He
must have been keeping it up steadily ever since the day out in the
country when Tom lifted his watc