27. The following Sunday there appeared a “magazine story” of an interview with the infinitely beautiful young wife of the infinitely rich Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, in which the views of the wife on the subject of child-labour were liberally interlarded with descriptions of her reception-room and her morning-gown. But mere picturesqueness by that time had been pretty well discounted in our minds. So long as the article did not say anything about the ownership of child-labour tenements! I did not see Sylvia for several weeks after that. I took it for granted that she would want some time to get herself together and make up her mind about the future. I did not feel anxious; the seed had sprouted, and I felt sure it would continue to grow. Then one day she called me up, asking if I could come to see her. I suggested that afternoon, and she said she was having tea with some people at the Palace Hotel, and could I come there just after tea-time? I remember the place and the hour, because of the curious adventure into which I got myself. One hears the saying, when unexpected encounters take place, “How small the world is!” But I thought the world was growing really too small when I went into a hotel tea-room to wait for Sylvia, and found myself face to face with Claire Lepage! The place appointed had been the “orange-room”; I stood in the door-way, sweeping the place with my eyes, and I saw Mrs. van Tuiver at the same moment that she saw me. She was sitting at a table with several other people and she nodded, and I took a seat to wait. From my position I could watch her, in animated conversation; and she could send me a smile now and then. So I was decidedly startled when I heard a voice, “Why, how do you do?” and looked up and saw Claire holding out her hand to me. “Well, for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed. “You don’t come to see me any more,” she said. “Why, no--no, I’ve been busy of late.” So much I managed to ejaculate, in spite of my confusion. “You seem surprised to see me,” she remarked--observant as usual, and sensitive to other people’s attitude to her. “Why, naturally,” I said. And then, recollecting that it was not in the least natural--since she spent a good deal of her time in such places--I added, “I was looking for someone else.” “May I do in the meantime?” she inquired, taking a seat beside me. “What are you so busy about?” “My child-labour work,” I answered. Then, in an instant, I was sorry for the words, thinking she must have read about Sylvia’s activities. I did not want her to know that I had met Sylvia, for it would mean a flood of questions, which I did not want to answer--nor yet to refuse to answer. But my fear was needless. “I’ve been out of town,” she said. “Whereabouts?” I asked, making conversation. “A little trip to Bermuda.” My mind was busy with the problem of getting rid of her. It would be intolerable to have Sylvia come up to us; it was intolerable to know that they were in sight of each other.