In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver. She wondered idly if she would every marry. A gracious hostess, gathering around her brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of industry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shy genius. Perhaps, in a perfectly harmless way, allowing it the inspiration derivable from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salon that should be the nucleus of all those forces that influence influences, over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The idea appealed to her. “But we must succeed to be of use,” urged Mary. “Must God’s servants always remain powerless?”!

“Oh, just a Christian gentleman,” she answered. “You will love him when you know him.” “I’ve never been able myself,” he continued, “to understand the Lord’s enthusiasm for David. I suppose it was the Psalms that did it.”

“Couldn’t you have saved a bit, Daddy?” she asked, “of all that wealth of youth—just enough to live on?” Madge had asked Joan to come a little earlier so that they could have a chat together before the others arrived. He followed it up with another. This one with a chorus, consisting chiefly of “Umpty Umpty Umpty Umpty Ay,” which was vociferously encored.