Dallas occupied the other; she was chatting, and twisting her golden
wools about her fingers,--it was noticeable that she used only golden
wools that morning; her dress was pale blue, and the effect of the
purples would not have been good.

"I thought your calls were going to take till dinner, Myron," called
Harrie, through the blinds.

"I thought so too," said Myron, placidly, "but they do not seem to.
Won't you come down?"

Harrie thanked him, saying, in a pleasant _nonchalant_ way, that she
could not leave the baby. It was almost the first bit of acting that the
child had ever been guilty of,--for the baby was just going to sleep,
and she knew it.

She turned away from the window quietly. She could not have been angry,
and scolded; or noisy, and cried. She put little Harrie into her cradle,
crept upon the bed, and lay perfectly still for a long time.

When the dinner-bell rang, and she got up to brush her hair, that
absent, apathetic look of which I have spoken had left her eyes. A
stealthy brightness came and went in them, which her husband might have
observed if he and Miss Dallas had not been deep in the Woman question.
Pauline saw it; Pauline saw everything.

"Why did you not come down and sit with us this morning?" she asked,
reproachfully, when she and Harrie were alone after dinner. "I don't
want your husband to feel that he must run away from you to entertain
me."