He steadied her where she stood panting and breathless, looking down at the top of her light-blue _chiffon_ hat, which had rather a pale and chilly early-morning effect in connection with a tight-fitting tan jacket. In lieu of furs she wore a white, pink-flowered silk scarf tied around her throat, the long fringed ends depending below her waist. Her figure was that of a young girl, but when she raised her small, long-chinned face you saw that she was considerably older; there were innumerable fine wrinkles around her pretty eyes—which had a soft haze over them, as if she had cried a great deal—and her abundant fair hair seemed a shade or two lighter than any nature could have intended it. She had an indescribable effect of artificiality counteracted rather appealingly by something bright and courageous in her gaze. Opinion halted about Mrs. Lalor, who, as a Southern woman was not only alien in habit to the Northern community to which she had lately come, but was also looked upon debatingly by the small society of Southerners in the place, usually hospitably ready to welcome any one from home. It was unquestionable that she came of a good family, which counted for very much, but it was rumoured that she had married against the family wishes. No one knew anything of Mr. Lalor—who, in appearance, was a tall, handsome man with a drooping, reddish-brown mustache—except that he was unpleasingly dissipated and always in difficulties; it seemed to discredit his wife in some way that she lived with him. She had, besides a little flirting, attractive manner to men, a sort of an echo of past belleship, which might have been all right if she had a nice husband, but was felt to be a little stepping over the line when she hadn’t. A few women averred that there was something in her that they really liked, of whom tender-hearted little Mrs. Ramsey was one, and her neighbour, Mrs. Laurence another. The latter was by nature both generous and romantic, and with an unselfish, intelligent insight into lives that were different from her own. There was a trustfulness in Mrs. Lalor’s attitude now which appealed to Laurence. He let go his hold of her as the wind subsided, to say: “What are you out so early for this bitter morning? I’m just on my way to your house. Is Lalor in?” “If you were going for those papers”—Mrs. Lalor began tugging at the breast of her jacket for a visible package—“My husband meant to bring them around last night, but he’s in bed—with a cold.” Every one knew what Mr. Lalor’s “colds” implied. “I thought you might need them to-day; I was so afraid I wouldn’t catch you in time.” She drew a sharp breath that showed how she had been hurrying. “It was awfully good of you,” said Mr. Laurence warmly, as they turned down another street together. “Lalor will be well enough to be seen this evening, I hope?”