Mrs. Thorstad smiled in acquiescence, leaving her chair herself. She sent a dutiful postal to Mr. Thorstad and went out on the Avenue in front of the hotel. She had calls to make. The galling sense of the fact that her impress on the Convention must be a slight one was undoubtedly under her gallant, moral little smile. To be sure she had come to the Convention, she had a seat reserved, she was, as she always would be, taking what she could get, but if Margaret Duffield had not come West it might have been more. None the less she called on Miss Duffield and Mrs. Flandon. She found them at their hotel where congregated a brilliant circle. Harriet Thompson, renowned from coast to coast as a leader of women, was there. She was a rather plain woman of forty-five, lean faced with good brown eyes and a rather disconcerting way of seeming to leap at you intimately to discover what sort of person you were. And there were Grace Hawlett, the novelist, and the wives and sisters of famous politicians. It was a gay, knowledgeable group. Most of the women knew Margaret and were instantly attracted by Helen’s beauty and charm of manner. Margaret introduced Mrs. Thorstad as “one of the best woman organizers in the Middle West,” and they were all cordial. Mrs. Thompson took the Mohawk leader aside for a little talk. It was astonishing how much Mrs. Thompson knew about the situation in St. Pierre--how she had her finger on the strength of the women and the strength of the organization in the entire state. She put rapid questions to Mrs. Thorstad and checked her a little abruptly in the middle of some generalities. “How did you all like Miss Duffield?” she asked. “Very much indeed,” answered Mrs. Thorstad, with the slightest pursing of lips. The keen brown eyes looked at her for a minute. It was not the answer usually made to a question about Margaret Duffield. Mrs. Thorstad departed to find her own kind. She knew she was not at home in that particular group which while it awed her by its sparkle of mind and personality, yet left her resentful, and she went on the round of her further calls. She found women with petty lobbying to do, with little reputations which they wished to secure, airing their platitudes and generalities to each other in heavy agreement, talking of the new day and denouncing the vagaries of modernity with a fervor that was half jealous, half fearful. Harriet Thompson looked at Margaret after Mrs. Thorstad had left them. She always liked to look at Margaret. The serenity in her calm face, the touch of austerity which kept it from becoming placid, pleased her. She crossed to where she was sitting. “What did you do to that little person, Margaret?” “I? I didn’t do anything. She rather wanted to be delegate at large in Helen’s place, I think. Don’t speak of it to Helen. I told Helen there was no one else even willing to do it.” “Your Mrs. Flandon is a lovely person.”