And just at that minute, as I was preceding him down the narrow steps, a girl in a red coat trimmed with chinchilla and in a red toque with some of the same fur blocked our way as she was coming up. We looked at each other. You've seen two peacocks spread their tails and strut as they pass each other? Well, the peacock coming up wasn't in it with the one going down. Her coat wasn't so fine, nor so heavy, nor so newly, smartly cut. Her toque wasn't so big nor so saucy, and the fur on it--not to mention that the descending peacock was a brunette and ... well, Mag, I had my day. Miss Evelyn Kingdon paid me back in that minute for all the envy I've spent on that pretty rig of hers. She didn't recognize me, of course, even though the two red coats were so near, as she stopped to let me pass, that they kissed like sisters, ere they parted. But, Mag, Nancy Olden never got haughty that there wasn't a fall waiting for her. Back of Miss Kingdon stood Mrs. Kingdon--still Mrs. Kingdon, thanks to Nance Olden--and behind her, at the foot of the steps, was a frail little old-fashioned bundle of black satin and old lace. I lost my breath when the Bishop hailed his wife. "Maria," he said--some men say their wives' first names all the years of their lives as they said them on their wedding-day--"I want you to meet Miss Olden--Nance Olden, the comedian. She's the girl I wanted for my daughter--you'll remember, it's more than a year ago now since I began to talk about her?" I held my breath while I waited for her answer. But her poor, short-sighted eyes rested on my hot face without a sign. "It's an old joke among us," she said pleasantly, "about the Bishop's daughter." We stood there and chatted, and the Bishop turned away to speak to Mrs. Kingdon. Then I seized my chance. "I've heard, Mrs. Van Wagenen," I said softly and oh, as nicely as I could, "of your fondness for lace. We are going abroad in the spring, my husband and I, to Malta, among other places. Can't I get you a piece there as a souvenir of the Bishop's kindness to me?" Her little lace-mittened, parchment-like hands clasped and unclasped with an almost childish eagerness. "Oh, thank you, thank you very much; but if you would give the same sum to charity--" "I will," I laughed. She couldn't guess how glad I was to do this thing. "And I'll spend just as much on your lace and be so happy if you'll accept it." I promised Henrietta a box for to-night, Maggie, and one to Mrs. Kingdon. The Dowager told me she'd love to come, though her husband is out of town, unfortunately, she said. "But you'll come with me, won't you, Bishop?" she said, turning to him. "And you, Mrs. Van?"