I had a friend, an ancient lady, a relative of one of our greatest
actors, who, for independence' sake, taught music in her old age. One
night she had played at a concert and was returning home. Tall and
slight and heavily veiled, she walked alone. Then suddenly appeared a
well-looking young son of Belial, undoubtedly a gentleman by daylight.
He tipped his hat and twirled his mustache; she turned away her head. He
cleared his throat; she seemed quite deaf. He spoke; he called her
"girlie" (the scamp!). She walked the faster; so did he. He protested
she should not walk home alone; she stopped; she spoke, "Will you please
allow me to walk home in peace?"

But, no, that was just what he would not do, and suddenly she answered,
"Very well, then, I accept your escort, though under protest."

[Illustration: _Clara Morris in "Evadne"_]

Surprised, he walked at her side. The way was long, the silence grew
painful. He ventured to suggest supper as they passed a restaurant; she
gently declined. At last she stopped directly beneath a gas-lamp, and
from her face, with sorrow-hollowed eyes and temples, where everyone of
her seventy-six years had been stamped in cruel line and crease and
wrinkle, she lifted up the veil and raised her sad old eyes
reproachfully to his. He staggered back, turned red, turned white,
stammered, took off his hat, attempted to apologize, then turned and
fled.

"And what," I asked, "did you say to him?"

"Say, say," she repeated; "justice need not be cruel. Why add anything