I thought this was about enough, but we were to have yet more positive proof. One evening, soon after, we were all at the Jenkses'. It was a large party, and the rooms were hot and crowded. The Williamses were there, and Walter Dana; but he did not go near Loulie; he paid her no more attention in company than anybody else--from motives of policy, most probably--and she was even quieter than usual, and seemed weary and depressed. Mrs. Jenks asked her to sing, and she refused with more than her ordinary decision. "She would rather not sing to-night, if Mrs. Jenks did not mind," and this refusal she repeated without variation. But Mrs. Jenks did mind very much; she had asked some people from a distance, on purpose to hear Mrs. Williams, and when she had implored in vain, and made all her guests do so too, she finally, in despair, directed herself to Mr. Williams, who seemed in very good spirits, as he always did in company. It was enough for him to know that Professor Perkins and Judge Wheelwright depended on hearing his wife, to rouse his pride at once, and I heard him say to her coaxingly: "Come, Loulou, don't you think you could sing a little?" Loulou said something in so low a tone that I could not catch a word. "Yes, dear, I know; but I really don't think there's any reason for it--and they have all come to hear you, and it seems disobliging not to." Again Loulie's reply was inaudible, all but the last words, "Cannot get through with it." "Oh, yes, you will. Come, darling, won't you? Just once, to oblige me. It won't last long."