Phoebe was the crystallization of an infusion of the blood of many
cultured, high-bred, haughty women which had been melted in the retort of
a stern necessity and had come out a rather brilliant specimen of the
modern woman, if a bit hard. Viewed in some ways she became an alarming
augury of the future, but there are always potent counter-forces at work
in life's laboratory, and the kind of forces that David Kildare brought
to bear in his wooing were never exactly to be calculated upon. And so
the major spent much time in the contemplation of the problem presented.

And when she had come in after a late lunch to call upon their guest, it
had been intensely interesting to the major to regard the effect of the
meeting of Phoebe's and Caroline Darrah's personalities. Caroline's
lovely, shy child's eyes had melted with delight under Phoebe's straight,
gray, friendly glances and her fascination for the tall, strong, radiant
woman, who sat beside her, had been so obvious that the major had
chuckled to himself under his breath as he watched them make friends,
under Mrs. Matilda's poorly concealed anxiety that they should at once
adopt cordial relations.

"And so he consented to undertake the commission for you because he was
interested?" Phoebe was asking as they talked about the sketches of the
statue. A very great sculptor was doing the work for Caroline Darrah
Brown, and it interested Phoebe to hear how he had consented to accept so
unimportant a commission.

"Yes," answered Caroline in her exquisite voice which showed only the
faintest liquid trace of her southern inheritance. "I told him all about
it and he became interested. He is very great, and simple, and kind. He
made it easy to show him how I felt. I couldn't tell him much except