e pursued was Isabel Otis's. The
President, as she rapped for order, betrayed no ruffling of the humorous
imperturbability that had made her a power in Rosewater. Mrs. Leslie,
although of "the old Southern set" of San Francisco, had none of the
external elegances of Mrs. Wheaton, Mrs. Boutts and Dolly, or even of
her own daughter. She was generally to be seen in a rusty black frock
and bonnet, a pair of eye-glasses in black frames bestriding the bridge
of her nose. But her eyes were very black and bright, her mouth was as
firm as it was kind and humorous. Beside her sat the Treasurer, Mrs.
Wheaton, whom Mrs. Leslie understood as thoroughly as she did every
member of the flock that was really hers, although in matters of mere
society she disdained to lead it. Mrs. Wheaton, for all her petty airs
and evil-scenting profile, was really a woman of high ideals. Her
severity to others was due to the secret knowledge that these ideals
were beyond her personal accomplishment, and the satisfaction to be
derived from audibly rating the failings of her neighbors. Her highest
ideal was self-control, particularly in relation to the weaknesses of
the flesh; but after a period of stern abstinence, she indulged
inordinately in oysters, fried chicken with cream gravy, and ice-cream
with cocoanut cake; and sipped a night-cap upon retiring. Her passion
for cards had long since routed her will; but she intended to reform
wholly in time, for she walked in fear of the Lord. If she judged the
young harshly, she persuaded herself that she had only their well-being
at heart. She was one of the pillars of the church and gave liberally to
its support.

Mrs. Haight, who, as we have seen, enjoyed one of those purely
fortuitous reputations for cleverness, was Secretary of the combined
wings of the Club, and sat on Mrs. Leslie's left. Mrs. Wheaton's portly
person was sheathed in purple velvet, and there were handsome strings
between two of her chins, but Mrs. Haight wore a battered hat of
Neapolitan straw bedecked with a ragged bunch of carnations. It sat on
one side of her ill-kept head, giving her a singularly rakish and
definite appearance. She was furthermore attired in an old Paisley shawl
belonging to her grandmother--what better way to advertise a
grandmother?--over a blue alpaca frock made by her own unskilful
fingers. Mr. Haight was the most prosperous druggist in Rosewater, but
his wife had sounding virtues.

The other members of the Club,