“I heard of your return, dear Mr. Storm,” she said, in the languid voice of the great lady, but the accent of St. Louis, as she led the way to the drawing-room. “My daughter told me about it. She was always interested in your work, you know.... Oh, yes, quite well, and having a real good time in Paris. Of course, you know she has been married. A great loss to me naturally, but being God's will I felt it was my duty as a mother----” and then a pathetic description of her maternal sentiments, consoled by the circumstance that her son-in-law belonged to “one of the best families,” and that she was constantly getting newspapers from “the other side” containing full accounts of the wedding and of the dresses that were worn at it. John twirled his hat in his hand and listened. “And what are your dear devoted people doing down there in Soho?” Then John told of his work for working girls, and the great lady pretended to be deeply interested. “Why, they'll soon be better than the upper classes,” she said. John thought it was not improbable, but he went on to tell of his scheme, and how small was the sum required for its execution. “Only three thousand! That ought to be easily fixed up. Why, certainly!” “Charity is the salt of riches, madam, and if rich people would remember that their wealth is a trust----” “I do--I always do. 'Lay not up for yourselves treasure on earth'--what a beautiful text _that_ is!” “I'm glad to hear you say so, madam. So many Christian people allow that God is the God of the widow and fatherless, while the gods they really worship are the gods of silver and gold.” “But I love the dear children, and I like to go to the institution to see them in their nice white pinafores making their curtsies. But what you say is real true, Mr. Storm; and since I came from Sent Louis I've seen considerable people who are that silly about cats----” and then a long story of the folly of a lady friend who once had a pet Persian, but it died, and she wore crape for it, and you could never mention a cat in her hearing afterward. At that moment the poodle came back from its walk, and the lady called it to her, fondled it affectionately, said it was a present from her poor dear husband, and launched into an account of her anxieties respecting it, being delicate and liable to colds, notwithstanding the trousseau (it was a lady poodle) which the fashionable dog tailor in Regent Street had provided for it. John got up to take his leave. “May I then count on your kind support on behalf of our poor women and children of Soho?” “Ah, of course, that matter--well, you see the Archdeacon kindly comes to talk 'City' with me--in fact, I'm expecting him to-day--and I never do anything without asking his advice, never, in my present state of health--I have a weak heart, you know,” with her head aside and her saturated pocket-handkerchief at her nose. “But has the Prime Minister done anything?” “He has advanced me two thousand pounds.”