"I'm afraid good works are apt to grow monotonous. A sad commentary on
the triumphs of civilization over undiluted nature." Mary continued to
watch the torch bearer of the East Side. "Don't you sometimes hate it?"

She asked the question idly, interested for the moment in probing under
another shell hardened in the mould of time, and half-hoping that Agnes
would be natural and human for once, cease to be the bright well-oiled
machine. She was by no means prepared for what she got.

Miss Trevor gulped down the scalding tea in an almost unladylike
manner, and put the cup down with a shaking hand.

"That's what I've come to see you about," she said in a low intense
voice, and her teeth set for a moment as if she had taken a bit between
them. "Mary, you've upset my life."

"I? What next!"

"I suppose you have troubles of your own, dear, and I hate to bother
you with mine----"

"Oh, mine amount to nothing at present. And if I can help you----"
She felt no enthusiasm at the prospect, but she saw that the woman was
laboring under excitement of some sort, and if she could not give her
sympathy at least she might help her with sound practical advice.
Moreover, she was in for it. "Better tell me all about it."

"It is terribly hard. I'm so humiliated--and--and I suppose no more
reticent woman ever lived."

"Oh, reticence! Why not emulate the younger generation? I'm not
sure--although I prefer the happy medium myself--that they are not
wiser than their grandmothers and their maiden aunts. On the principle
that confession is good for the soul, I don't believe that women will
be so obsessed by--well, let us say, sex, in the future."

Miss Trevor flushed darkly. "It is possible. . . . That's what I
am--a maiden aunt. Just that and nothing more."

"Nothing more? I thought you were accounted one of the most useful
women in serious New York. A sort of mother to the East Side."

"Mother? How could I be a mother? I'm only a maiden aunt even down
there. Not that I want to be a mother----"

"I was going to ask you why you did not marry even now. It is not too
late to have children of your own----"

"Oh, yes, it is. That's all over--or nearly. But I can't say that I
ever did long for children of my own, although I get on beautifully
with them."

"Well?" asked Mary patiently, "what is it you do want?"

"A husband!" This time there was no doubt about the explosion.

Mary felt a faint sensation of di