The butler had taken off the salad; they were waiting for the dessert. Suddenly from the direction of the kitchen came a piercing scream, evidently a woman’s scream; all the swinging doors between the dining-room and the distant kitchen could not muffle it. Mrs. Modderwell started nervously, then, at a look from her husband, composed herself and hung her head with embarrassment. The others at the table started, though not so visibly, and then tried to appear as if they had not done so. Mrs. Ward looked up in alarm, first at Ward, who hastily gulped some wine, and then at Elizabeth. Wonder and curiosity were in all the faces about the board--wonder and curiosity that no sophistication could conceal. They waited; the time grew long; Mrs. Ward, who always suffered through her dinners, suffered more than ever now. Her guests tried bravely to sit as if nothing were wrong, but at last their little attempts at conversation failed, and they sat in painful silence. The moments passed; Ward and his wife exchanged glances; Elizabeth looked at her mother sympathetically. At last the door swung and the butler entered; the guests could not help glancing at him. But in his face there was a blank and tutored passivity that was admirable, almost heroic. When the women were in the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward excused herself for a moment and went to the kitchen. She returned presently, and Elizabeth voiced the question the others were too polite to ask. "What on earth’s the matter?" "Matter!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward. "Gusta’s going, that’s all." She said it with the feeling such a calamity merited. "When?" "Now." "But the scream--what was it?" "Well, word came about her father; he’s been hurt, or killed, or something, in the railroad yards." "Oh, how dreadful!" the women politely chorused. "Yes, I should think so," said Mrs. Ward. "To be left like this without a moment’s warning! And then that awful _contretemps_ at dinner!" Mrs. Ward looked all the anguish and shame she felt. "But Gusta couldn’t help that," said Elizabeth. "No," said Mrs. Ward, lapsing from her mood of exaggeration, "I know that, of course. The poor girl is quite broken up. I hope it is nothing really serious. And yet," she went on, her mind turning again to her own domestic misfortunes, "people of her class seem to have the most unerring faculty for calamity. They’re always getting hurt, or sick, or dying, or something. The servants in my house suffer more bereavement in the course of a month than all the rest of my acquaintance in a lifetime." And then the ladies took up the servant-girl problem, and canvassed it hopelessly until the men were heard entering the library. III