expansive benevolence and kindliness. She was a large, handsome,
florid woman. Her grayish-brown hair was carefully crimped, and
looped back from her fat, pink cheeks, a fine shell-and-gold comb
surmounted her smooth French twist, and held her bonnet in place.
She unfastened her cloak, and a diamond brooch at her throat caught
the light and blazed red like a ruby. She was the wife of Norman
Lloyd, the largest shoe-manufacturer in the place. There was between
her and Cynthia a sort of relationship by marriage. Norman Lloyd's
brother George had married Cynthia's sister, who had died ten years
before, and of whose little son, Robert, Cynthia had had the charge.
Now George, who was a lawyer in St. Louis, had married again. Mrs.
Norman had sympathized openly with Cynthia when the child was taken
from Cynthia at his father's second marriage. "I call it a shame,"
she had said, "giving that child to a perfect stranger to bring up,
and I don't see any need of George's marrying again, anyway. I don't
know what I should do if I thought Norman would marry again if I
died. I think one husband and one wife is enough for any man or
woman if they believe in the resurrection. It has always seemed to
me that the answer to that awful question in the New Testament, as
to whose wife that woman who had so many husbands would be in the
other world, meant that people who had done so much marrying on
earth would have to be old maids and old bachelors in heaven. George
ought to be ashamed of himself, and Cynthia ought to keep that
child."

Ever since she had been very solicitously friendly towards Cynthia,
who had always imperceptibly held herself aloof from her, owing to a
difference in degree. Cynthia had no prejudices of mind, but many of
nerves, and this woman was distinctly not of her sort, though she
had a certain liking for her. Every time she was brought in contact