So in carriages, bright and early Friday morning, the party started out to "do" New Orleans, as Genevieve termed it. Leaving the "American portion," where were situated their hotel and most of the other big hotels and business houses of American type, they trailed happily along through Prytania Street and St. Charles Avenue to the beautiful "Garden District" which they had been warned not to miss. They found, indeed, much to delight them in the stately, palatial homes set in the midst of exquisitely kept lawns and wonderful groves of magnolia and oak. Quite as interesting to them all, however, was the old French or Latin Quarter below Canal Street, where were the Creole homes and business houses. Here they ate their luncheon, too, in one of the curious French restaurants, famous the world over for its delicious dishes. With the disappearance of the last mouthful on her plate, Tilly drew a long breath. "I've always heard Creoles were awfully interesting," she sighed. "Do you know--I don't think I'd mind much being a Creole myself!" "You look so much like one, too," laughed Genevieve, affectionately, patting the soft, fluffy red hair above the piquant, freckled little face. At five o'clock that afternoon a tired but happy party reached the hotel in time to rest and dress for dinner. "Well," sighed Genevieve, "I'd have liked a week here, but a day has been pretty good. We've seen enough 'Quarters' to make a 'whole,' and the Cathedral, and dozens of other churches, and we've driven along those lovely lakes with the unpronounceable names; and now I'm ready for dinner." "And we saw a statue--the Margaret Statue," cut in Cordelia, anxiously. "You know it's the _first_ statue ever erected to a woman's memory in the United States. We wouldn't want to forget that!" "Well, I should like to," retorted Genevieve, perversely. "It's only so much the worse for the United States--that it wasn't done before!" "I think Genevieve is going to be a suffragette," observed Tilly, cheerfully, as they trooped into the hotel together. It was from New Orleans that Cordelia Wilson wrote a letter to Mr. William Hodges. She had decided that it would be easier to write her bad news than to tell it. Then, too, she disliked to keep the old man any longer in suspense. She made her letter as comforting as she could.