Her frock was of gray silk, high at the neck, tight at the waist, full in the skirt, “garnished” with three graduated bands of satin ribbon above a flounce at the bottom. It rustled richly as she walked, and she fairly crimped the ground as she walked, taking short, emphatic steps, as if the high heels of her slippers were stings with which she stung whatever was lawful for an indignant woman to sting with her heels. She was on her way to Helen Adams and her mother. She had tried to reason with George about this hasty marriage. She had pointed out to him that while the girl was a nice girl, and so on and so forth, only to have George fling out of the room as if she had insulted him. She had talked to Mr. Cutter about it, who had told her briefly, if not rudely, that she had better mind her own business and leave these young people to attend to theirs since they would do it, anyhow. As if George was not, and had not been, her own and chief business from the day of his birth. She had moped and suffered these three days. At last she had resolved to do her duty, since it was the only thing left that she could do. She would go and call on the Adamses, “recognize” them, and thus by the sacrifice of her pride and convictions, reinstate herself with George. The lot of a mother was a sad one! She had the pangs by which her child, in this case a son, was born. She nursed him. She had the care of him, never thinking of herself. Then when he was old enough to give her some returns, he goes off against her advice and gives himself to another woman who, she knows, and will live to see, is unsuited to him, and on top of all this she must sacrifice her feelings, stultify herself, boot-lick George by going over there! She was so moved to pity of herself that the imminence of tears reminded her that she had forgotten her handkerchief. She went back to get it, thus keeping the neighbors in suspense, because she had to stop and powder her nose after blowing it. This time she came out, moving swiftly and rustlingly across the street to the Adams cottage. She did not doubt that she would be received cordially there. She did not know that Mrs. Adams had ceased to “speak” to her some time ago, because she had never been more than civil to Mrs. Adams, and therefore would not have known if that lady had passed a year without speaking to her. She was received, of course, but by no stretch of imagination could the reception have been called cordial. Mrs. Adams did it. She asked her in, and admitted coolly that yes, Helen was at home. She would “tell” her. She went out to do this. Mrs. Cutter’s eyes took one flight about the room. She made the best of what she saw. There certainly were some good pieces of golden oak in it. She wondered if the girl would be allowed to take her piano when she married. She hoped-- Mrs. Adams returned, large, serene, dignified, very cool. She hoped Mrs. Cutter had been well? Oh, yes, quite well, thanks.