“Untidy? I never saw you untidy, and don’t believe you ever were. I met a man in the hall, who said he’d been here for an hour. You must have been playing puss in the corner with him.” “Yes; his name’s Essex, and he’s a friend of Mrs. Willers’ that I know. He was here, and I thought he’d come about music lessons, so I came down looking rather untidy. That was how it happened.” “And he stayed an hour talking about music lessons?” “No--oh, no; other things.” They turned into the hall, Barron, in his character of general guardian of the Garcia fortunes, shutting the door of the state apartment. He had the appearance of taking no notice of Mariposa, but as soon as he got into the light of the hall gas he sent a lightning-like glance over her face. “It was funny,” he said, “but as I came up the steps I thought I heard some one calling out. I dashed in and fell into the arms of your music-lesson man, who said no cries of any kind had disturbed the joy of his hour in your society.” Mariposa had begun to ascend the stairs. “Cries?” she said over her shoulder; “I don’t think there were any cries. Why should any one cry out here?” “That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” he said, watching her ascending back. She turned and passed out of sight at the top of the stairs. Barron stood below under the hall gas, his head drooped. He was puzzled, for, say what they might, he was certain he had heard cries. CHAPTER XIX NOT MADE IN HEAVEN “Women are like tricks by sleight of hand Which to admire we should not understand.” --CONGREVE. At _The Trumpet_ office the next morning Essex found a letter awaiting him. It was from Mrs. Shackleton, asking him to dinner on a certain evening that week--“very informally, Mr. Essex would understand, as the family was in such deep mourning.” Essex turned the letter over, smiling to himself. It was an admirable testimony to Bessie’s capability. Her monogram, gilded richly, adorned the top of the sheet of cream-laid paper, and beneath it, in a fine running hand, were the few carefully-worded sentences, and then the signature--Bessie A. Shackleton. It was a remarkable letter, considering all things; wonderful testimony to that adaptive cleverness which is the birth-right of Bessie’s countrywomen. In her case this care of externals had not been a haphazard acquirement. She was not the woman to be slipshod or trust to the tutoring of experience. When her husband’s star had begun to rise with such dazzling effulgence she had hired teachers for herself, as well as those for Maud, and there were many books of etiquette on the shelves in her boudoir.