Miss Braithwaite was supremely indifferent to the effect of her charm, but she could not help knowing that she had the gift of winning to her anyone toward whom she elected to put forth her powers to please. She had travelled far and lived long in Europe; had read all her life; was a gracious, vivacious hostess; had moved in the best society, the truly fine society of her own land and England, and, though not beautiful as a young woman, had been one whom all men honored, admired, and whom many had sought to wed. Her mind was brilliant and--a rarer quality in a woman’s--was logical, with a true sense of justice and proportion. She was one whom only infinity could satisfy, and, becoming a convert to the Catholic Church before her thirtieth year, she had given over her great gifts to its service, was a factor in its work, showing it to many another, making her house, her wealth, her gifted self its consecrated tools. The priests used her for work which the women garbed in religious habits could do less well, which they themselves could not always compass. Her house had become a sort of perpetual salon; to it repaired people from distant cities; in it were organized many movements for good, and in Miriam Braithwaite the Church had a daughter whose mere existence sufficiently refuted slander against the Church, since she could neither be deluded, nor tolerate anything less than the noblest. Now Cis, worn and terror-stricken, unable to feel with the keenness of some hours earlier, yet below her congealed surfaces reaching out after Rodney, turning to him, pitying him, hungering for him, discerned in Miss Braithwaite the qualities which were hers so supremely, and began to lean out to her with a blind desire to get from her what was hers to give. “Please call me ‘Cis’--that’s what I’m called--‘Cicely,’ if you like it better,” Cis said. “I think I ought to tell you all about myself.” “Surely!” Miss Braithwaite agreed cordially. “Do you know anything so fine as to have someone trust you enough to confide in you? But supper first, my dear! I’ll ring for it, and we’ll eat here, as warm and cozy as two ladybugs. I hope you’re not too young to care about tea?” “Twenty-two,” said Cis, with a tiny smile. “Well, that’s true, what you imply!” cried Miss Braithwaite, rising to touch a bell. “It’s not the years, but the palate. Tea is the most refreshingly restorative thing I know. Ah, Ellen,” she added as a maid entered. “Will you serve us supper here? Miss Adair is staying with me. Let us have the cold chicken, lettuce, small biscuits; the cream cheese, tea--without cream? Now that’s a sensible girl, Cicely!--fruit punch, with considerable grape fruit in it, and a dash of the claret; cake, the white cake, not the solid one. Perhaps that’s all; perhaps not. It will do to begin with. Place the table there, Ellen, please; push away the couch. And will you please bring the roses from the dining room?”