d write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's
impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote
to Mirabelle. And he needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for
during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpassing herself. That
is, if one can surpass a superlative.

Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a
philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him
purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr.
Starkweather--marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility.
Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather's guaranty of it. To be sure a secret
marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous--

"Humph!" Mirabelle had interrupted. "I don't know who's insulted
most--you or us. Still I suppose you've got _one_ consolation--and
that's if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it
only leaves just the two of 'em to repent at leisure instead of
four."

Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge's
futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well
try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took another deep breath,
and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry
would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite
livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which
took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and
began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would chink
up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection.
Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled
himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his
sister Mirabelle.

She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and
as Mr. Starkweather's car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just
emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First,
there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist
and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from
the files of Godey's Lady's Book; he recognized a few of them, and
judged the others accordingly--these were the militants, the infantry,
who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a group of
younger women, and of young men--the men, almost without exception,
wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers
and the reserves. At one side, there was a