g of them?...

Not to let the conversation lag, she had remarked, with no pause at all:

"It's strange our nearly running over him, just then and there. That old
shack is the Dabney House, and you know it's he who got up the
Settlement idea."

"No, I didn't know it," said Canning, slowing down to take a corner
which led on to civilization. "Still," he added, "I shan't let that stay
my generosity. I resolved three blocks back to subscribe five
hundred--just to throw you in the shade--and I will not be deterred."

Having been duly applauded for his prodigality, he inquired: "How much,
by the way, is the good doctor donating out of his forty thousand?"

"Not a cent!" said Carlisle, who had questioned Hen on this very point.

It was thus, indeed, that circumstances had given demolishing weight to
her club. "If I had money I'd probably hang on to every cent," the man
had said, that winter morning on his uncle's doorstep; and now he had
money, a lot of it, and hanging on he undoubtedly was. Hen herself had
confessed it, with a certain defiance, trying to create the impression
that the man was merely reserving his funds for some other good
purpose....

The triumphant ring in Carlisle's voice might have struck Canning as
odd, if he had happened to notice it. Still more obscure, however, were
the inner processes which led him to say:

"Does he make any charge for the thought?... Well, it's a fine thought,
all the same; a fine work. On reconsideration I raise my subscription to
a thousand. Hang the expense!..."

There was another gay burst of felicitation, after which Carlisle became
somewhat silent. Canning, bowling proficiently up Washington Street,
spoke of his honored maternal grandmother, the great lady Mrs. Theodore
Spencer, and her famous Brookline home. Beside him, Carlisle, listening
with one ear only, considered the strangeness of life. Transfigured
within, she had seemed to look out upon a new universe, yet was not this
somehow the face of an old familiar, slyly peeping? Of what use, then,
were clubs? When were things _ever_ settled, if she could be conscious
of a little cloud no larger than a man's hand even now, with the living
guarantee of her omnipotence at her side?...

"Who was that?" said Canning, suspending conversation to bow, with
Carlisle, to a passing female pedestrian.

"Oh," she laughed, a little vexedly, roused from her meditations--"just
one of my poor relations."

"Ah?" said he, a trifle