"Mamma, this is Mr. Harkless."

"How do you do?" The lady murmured this much so far under her breath that
the words might have been mistaken for anything else--most plausibly,
perhaps, for, "Who cares if it is?"--nor further did she acknowledge
John's profound inclination. Frigidity and complaint of ill-usage made a
glamour in every fold of her expensive garments; she was large and
troubled and severe. A second figure emerged from behind her and bowed
with the suave dignity that belonged to Brainard Macauley. "Mr. Macauley
has asked to sit at our table," Mrs. Sherwood said to Helen. "May I beg
you to come at once? Your father is holding places for us."

"Certainly," she answered. "I will follow you with Mr. Harkless."

"I think Mr. Harkless will excuse you," said the elder lady. "He has an
engagement. Mr. Meredith has been looking everywhere for him to take Miss
Hinsdale out to supper."

"Good-night, Miss Sherwood," said John in a cheerful voice. "I thank you
for sitting out the dance with me."

"Good-night," she said, and gave him her hand. "I'm so sorry I shan't see
you again; I am only in Rouen for this evening, or I should ask you to
come to see me. I am leaving to-morrow morning. Good-night.--Yes, mamma."

The three figures went toward the bright lights of the club-house. She was
leaning on Macauley's arm and chatting gaily, smiling up at him brightly.
John watched her till she was lost in the throng on the veranda. There, in
the lights, where waiters were arranging little tables, every one was