"But I have not your names, ladies, that I may inform Mrs. Carroll
who has called?" said Captain Carroll, in his stingingly polite voice.

Both women looked over their shrinking shoulders at him at that.
Suddenly the hideous consequences of it all, the afterclap, sounded
in their ears. That was the end of their fair fame in Banbridge, in
their world. Life for them was over. Their faces, good, motherly,
elderly village faces, after all, were pitiful; the shame in them was
a shame to see, so ignominious was it. They stood convicted of such a
mean fault, that the shame was the meaner also.

Suddenly Mr. Carroll's face changed. It became broadly comprehensive,
so generously lenient that it was fairly grand. A certain gentleness
also was evident, his voice was kind.

"Never mind, ladies," said Arthur Carroll. "There is really very
little use in your telling me your names, because my memory is so
bad. I remember neither names nor faces. If I should meet you on the
street, and should fail to recognize you on that account, I trust
that you will pardon me. And--" said Captain Carroll, "on that
account, I will not say anything about your call to the ladies of my
family; I should be sure to get it all wrong. We will wait, and trust
that you will find them at home the next time you call.
Good-afternoon, ladies." Captain Carroll had further mercy. He
allowed the ladies to leave the house unattended and to dive
desperately into the waiting coach.

"Home at once," Mrs. Van Dorn cried, hoarsely, to Samson Rawdy,
waking from his nap in some bewilderment.