Miss Rittingway tweaked the handle of her parasol. “I have knocked about a good deal,” she said, catching my look at the “knocked about,” “but I hope I have retained that sense of moral proportion which makes a woman like to see another woman get the right man.” “Presently,” I said, “I shall decide that you are not a chaperon at all, but a matchmaker. I approve of your last sentiment—” “You are so good!” “—and I should like to be credited with the same notion. I like to see a man get the right woman. But it is a wearing thing to try to direct the course of sentimental lightning. My feeling would be that in order to be a successful chaperon,—that is, to please the guardian, the girl, the man, and yourself,—you should undertake to regulate the social rather than the moral proprieties. I should go on believing, unless you were to contradict me, that it is not so much the business of a chaperon to see whom a girl meets and marries as to see how she meets and marries. Yours is essentially the supervisorship of form.” “If you will stop teasing,” said Miss Rittingway, “I may tell you about the experiment of Mrs. Rudderson. It is not apropos of anything you have said, which is, perhaps, a good reason for introducing it.” “This is better than I deserve.” “Mrs. Rudderson told me one day that she was going to try a social experiment. She was then a widow, thirty-six, good to look at, good natured, and comfortably off. To amuse herself she was going to bring a poor girl from a small town, fit her out, and give her a winter. The poor girl was attractive and clever, and Mrs. Rudderson gave her the most worldly advice she knew how to give,—and Mrs. Rudderson knows the world pretty well. Before Christmas the experiment was moving along swimmingly. Mrs. Rudderson saw to it that her _protégée_ met some of the most desirable men in the city, including Austin Crimwell, who had several times been reported as being committed to Mrs. Rudderson. Probably Mrs. Rudderson didn’t deserve what happened, for, if she had amused herself with the experiment, she took a benevolent pleasure in watching the success of the girl; but Crimwell fell plump in love with the _protégée_. Mrs. Rudderson should have known better. It is easy to say that now.” [Illustration] “I haven’t said it.” “Somebody must say it if I have to say it myself. It was tempting Providence.” “That is to say, Crimwell.” “You understand,” pursued Miss Rittingway, without swerving, “she was a nice girl, and Mrs. Rudderson’s idea was to give her a great chance.” “But not Crimwell.” “You couldn’t say it was the ingratitude of the girl. She didn’t know. It simply was the ingratitude of circumstances.” When I suggested that Circumstances were old offenders, Miss Rittingway went on, looking past me: “I can imagine Mrs. Rudderson, when she saw Crimwell drifting, studying herself in the mirror. You know she was only thirty-six.” “An ideal age.”