plump hands were covered with jewels, but for all the richness of
her gown she gave the impression of being very badly dressed; things
of jet and metal bobbed and ticked upon her, and her side-combs were
continually falling about. She sat on the sofa and looked at the
seat which St. George was to have and began to talk--all without
taking the slightest heed of him or permitting him to mention the
_Evening Sentinel_ or his errand. If St. George had been painted
purple he felt sure that she would have acted quite the same.
Personality meant nothing to her.

"Now this distressing matter, Mr. St. George," began Mrs. Hastings,
"of this frightful mulatto woman. I didn't see her myself--no, I had
stopped in on the first floor to visit my lawyer's wife who was ill
with neuralgia, and I didn't see the creature. If I had been with my
niece I dare say it wouldn't have occurred. That's what I always say
to my niece. I always say, 'Olivia, nothing _need_ occur to vex one.
It always happens because of pure heedlessness.' Not that I accuse
my own niece of heedlessness in this particular. It was the elevator
boy who was heedless. That is the trouble with life in a great
city. Every breath you draw is always dependent on somebody else's
doing his duty, and when you consider how many people habitually
neglect their duty it is a wonder--I always say that to Olivia--it
is a wonder that anybody is alive to _do_ a duty when it presents
itself. 'Olivia,' I always say, 'nobody needs to die.' And I really
believe that they nearly all do die out of pure heedlessness. Well,
and so this frightful mulatto creature: you know her, I understand?"

Mrs. Hastings leaned back and consulted St. George through her
tortoise-shell glasses, tilting her head high to keep them on her
nose and perpetually putting their gold chain over her ear, which