aching consequences that would thereby be
entailed. Yet, even from the cheeriest view, it was clear that the Works
were a pretty bad place--Hugo himself had tacitly admitted that by the
arguments he employed,--and if that was so, what was to be said for
papa? Possibly she and mamma did have some connection with the business,
but it would be simply foolish to say that they were _responsible_ for
the overcrowding in the bunching-room. How could she be--how _could_
she?--she, to whom her father had never spoken seriously in his life,
who had never even seen the Works inside till to-day? No, it was papa's
business. He was responsible; and it was a responsibility indeed....

It was quarter-past five. So, presently, the tall hall-clock said, on
its honor as a reliable timepiece.... Only an hour since she and Hugo
had met in front of Morland's....

Still the girl did not hurry up to her rest-chamber. She wandered
pointlessly from empty hall to silent drawing room. There had descended
upon her that sense of loneliness in the great world, to which in the
spring and summer she had been no stranger. She felt listless and oddly
tired. Presently, when she had thought about it a little, she was
certain that she felt quite unwell; almost ill. The strong probability
was that she had a bad sick headache coming on; small wonder, either,
after nearly fainting with poor Miller and others at the Works....

Cally considered whether she did not owe it to her health to dine from a
tray this evening, giving Hugo to-morrow morning instead. Even as she
revolved this thought--with especial reference to explaining it to
mamma--there came her humble admirer, Flora Johnson, col'd, saying that
Mr. Canning begged to speak to her a minute at the telephone.

"Mr. _Canning_?"

Flora said yas'm, and flashed her dazzling teeth. Her mistress ascended
the stairs in surprise, wondering what reason Hugo would assign for
wanting to come back.

However, Hugo's intentions were the contrary. His unhappy request was to
be excused from dinner this evening.

The young man's voice over the wire was at once regretful, annoyed, and
(somewhat) apologetic. There was, it seemed, the devil to pay over
certain entanglements of the rate-case matter. He had found Mr. Deming,
of his law firm, waiting for him at the hotel. Mr. Deming had come for a
conference which could not be postponed; he had to get back to
Washington by the nine-thirty train. Would Carlisle make his ex