"I should think so. I've driven rich and I've driven poor. I've even sat on the box in front of an English duchess, but never have I seen such features as Mrs. Ocumpaugh's. That's why I consent to drive an American millionaire's wife when I might be driving the English nobility." "A statue!" said I; "cold!" "True enough, but one you never tire of looking at. Besides, she can light up wonderfully. I've seen her when she was all a-quiver, and lovely as the loveliest. And when do you think that was?" "When she had her child in her arms." I spoke in lowered tones as befitted the suggestion and the circumstances. "No," he drawled, between thoughtful puffs of smoke; "when Mr. Ocumpaugh sat on the seat beside her. This, when I was driving the victoria. I often used to make excuse for turning my head about so as to catch a glimpse of her smile at some fine view and the way she looked up at him to see if he was enjoying it as much as she. I like women who love their husbands." "And he?" "Oh, she has nothing to complain of in him. He worships the ground she walks on; and he more than worshiped the child." Here _his_ voice fell. I brought the conversation back as quickly as I could to Mrs. Carew. "You like pale women," said I. "Now I like a woman who looks plain one minute, and perfectly charming the next." "That's what people say of Mrs. Carew. I know of lots who admire that kind. The little girl for one." "Gwendolen? Was she attracted to Mrs. Carew?" "Attracted? I've seen her go to her from her mother's lap like a bird to its nest. Many a time have I driven the carriage with Mrs. Ocumpaugh sitting up straight inside, and her child curled up in this other woman's arms with not a look or word for her mother." "How did Mrs. Ocumpaugh seem to like that?" I asked between puffs of my cigar. "Oh, she's one of the cold ones, you know! At least you say so; but I feel sure that for the last three years--that is, ever since this woman came into the neighborhood--her heart has been slowly breaking. This last blow will kill her." I thought of the moaning cry of "Philo! Philo!" which at intervals I still seemed to hear issue from that upper window in the great house, and felt that there might be truth in his fears. But it was of Mrs. Carew I had come to talk and not of Mrs. Ocumpaugh. "Children's fancies are unaccountable," I sententiously remarked; "but perhaps there is some excuse for this one. Mrs. Carew has what you call magnetism--a personality which I should imagine would be very appealing to a child. I never saw such expression in a human face. Whatever her mood, she impresses each passing feeling upon you as the one reality of her life. I can not understand such changes, but they are very fascinating." "Oh, they are easy enough to understand in her case. She was an actress once. I myself have seen her on the stage--in London. I used to admire her there." "An actress!" I repeated, somewhat taken aback.