l stared," I returned. "Anyone would."

The telephone rang and Mac went to answer it. We could hear his voice
plainly on the staircase.

"Hello! Who is it? Oh, good evening, Miss Fraenkel--yes, do. We're not
going out to-night. How long will you be? Right. Good-bye."

"She'll be up in half an hour," he said, going back to his easel.

I was by no means certain that Miss Fraenkel would be able to help us to
forecast accurately the future instalments of the Carville history. Of
course if we could induce her to assume that the painter-cousin's
strange companion was Mr. Carville's brother, she might begin to treat
the subject with the necessary seriousness. But I had no hope of this. I
was too conscious of the extreme subtlety of Mr. Carville's art (we may
grant him that now in advance) to think that we could transmit its
fascination to Miss Fraenkel. She would probably be astonished at the
continuance of our curiosity.

She was. She began, the moment she arrived, to tell us the vicissitudes
of a cause to which she had been rapidly and earnestly converted, the
cause of female suffrage. It was evident that her reason for calling was
to "let off steam," as Mac irreverently phrased it afterwards. A number
of millionaires' daughters had drawn upon themselves the eyes of the
world by tramping on foot to Washington to plead for the vote. Miss
Fraenkel's eyes dilated as she told us. We had seen the account of what
the _New York Daily News_ called "The Hike of the Golden Girls," but our
eyes had not dilated. We had even acrimoniously hinted that the
millionaires' daughters were seeking notoriety rather than a relief for
civil disabilities by this undignified tramp across New Jersey and
Maryland. But to Miss Fraenkel we said nothing of this. Even if we had
been averse to Miss Fraenkel having a vote, we would have said nothing.
Only Bill suggested with a smile that the leading "hiker" need not have
offered to kiss the President when he good-humouredly granted them an
interview. Miss Fraenkel could not see it. There was no divinity that
she knew of to hedge a President from a kiss.

"What about the President's wife?" asked Bill.

"Why, _she's_ one of us!" cried Miss Fraenkel. "She approves!"

"Of kissing her husband?" asked Bill.

But Miss Fraenkel's mind was fashioned in water-tight compartments. She
could not switch her enthusiasm from the vote long enough to appreciate
this lapse from good taste. Her mind did not work that