“Besides caring for the dormitories and sleeping-porches, you had to sweep and dust two piazzas, the parlor, reception-room, two schoolrooms, and two flights of stairs—beating all rugs in the back yard once a week, or as often as necessary.” She glanced up at me and shook her head, then went back to the typed sheets. “You were to help serve all three meals, wash the dinner dishes, and keep the pantries in order.” “In short, I was to have been parlor-maid, dining-room girl, pantry-maid, and chambermaid—a sort of four in one person,” I agreed. “If only I had——” “This is no laughing matter,” she reproved me sharply. “The reduced gentlewoman is one of the most serious problems the Association has to deal with—how to help her help herself, how to make her decently self-supporting. Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred such women are as ignorant and trustful as a baby. That is why Mrs. Howard’s advertisements are so dangerous. You must give that woman a lesson that she will not forget soon.” Surprised by her vehemence, I turned and looked at her. “You must do it,” she repeated, her tone and manner both serious. “But how?” I exclaimed, then reminded her: “I threatened to expose her to the newspaper if ever I saw her advertisement again. That’s all I can do.” “No, it is not,” she contradicted. “You can make her reimburse you for every penny that trip cost you—your packing and moving your things to storage. Every penny. That’s the only way to touch a woman of her type—through her pocketbook. She has no heart. She doesn’t care a rap for those children except as a means unto her end—to glorify herself. She intends that institution to be her monument. She will wring or squeeze every dollar she can from every person she can in order to add one stone to that monument. You can help the Association—we are always coming up against such women. It is your duty to do all you can to prevent other women falling into her trap.” Because I could not agree with my friend—her estimate of Mrs. Howard—I promised to sleep on her advice and let her know what I finally decided to do. Mrs. Howard, as I then saw her, had a single-track mind—a disease more common than is generally admitted. Absorbed by Rodman Hall she had thought of no other subject, had no other interest for so long that her mind had got into a groove, just one groove. She could not see, much less realize, anything outside that groove, neither to the side of it, above it, nor below it. The interest of Rodman Hall and that alone was considered.