tenuation for
herself. "You ought to understand, for it is our blood in me that
rebels. I never thought when I married a Withacre that I might bring
into the world a child that wasn't _dependable_--but I might have
known!" she said.

{81}

III

Lucretia, departing, left me tremulous. The flame-like rush of her
mind had scorched my consciousness; the great waves of her emotion had
pounded and beaten me. I shared, and yet shrank from, her passionate
apprehension of our little Desire's failure in the righteous life. For
I was, and am, fond of Desire.

I spent a feverish and most miserable day. There were so many unhappy
things to consider! The gossip that would rack the town apparently did
not concern Lucretia at all. I am hide-bound, I dare say, and choked
with convention. Certainly I shrank from the notoriety that would
attach itself to us when young Mrs. Arnold Ackroyd took up her
residence in Reno, as a first step toward the wider life. {82} Then
there was the disruption of old ties of friendship and esteem. It
would be painful to lose the Ackroyds from among our intimates, yet
impossible to retain them on the old footing. I already had that
curious feeling of having done the united clan vicarious injury.

Toward five o'clock my sister Mary, Mrs. Greening, tapped on the door.

Mary Greening and I are good friends for brother and sister. As
children we were chums; we abbreviated for each other the middle name
we all bore, Mary calling me Stub, and I calling her Stubby. We meant
this to express exceptional fraternal fealty. It was like a mystic
rite that bound us together.

She came in almost breezily. For a woman in late middle life Mary
Greening is comely. There is at the bottom {83} of her nature an
indomitable youthfulness, to which her complexion and movements bear
happy witness.

"Well, Stub, has Lucretia been here?"

"Come and sit down, Mary. Yes, Lucretia has been here. Very much so,"
I answered dejectedly.

Mary swept across the room almost majestically. Quite the type of a
fine woman is Mary Greening, though perhaps a thought too plump. She
threw back her sable stole and unfastened her braided violet coat; she
prefers richly embellished garments, though they are thought garish by
some of the matrons in her set.

"You keep it much too warm in here," she said critically.

I made a grimace.

"Your hat is a little to one side, Stubby, as usual."

{84}

She put he