Friday, and that Mrs. George B. Slade's house was an exceedingly
likely rendezvous, but he was singularly absent-minded as to what was
near, and very present minded as to what was afar. That which should
have been near was generally far to his mind, which was perpetually
gathering the wool of rainbow sheep in distant pastures.

If there was anything in which Karl von Rosen did not take the
slightest interest, it was women's clubs in general and the Zenith
Club in particular; and here he was, doomed by his own lack of
thought to sit through an especially long session. He had gone out
for a walk. To his mind it was a fine winter's day. The long,
glittering lights of ice pleased him and whenever he was sure that he
was unobserved he took a boyish run and long slide. During his walk
he had reached Mrs. Slade's house, and since he worked in his
pastoral calls whenever he could, by applying a sharp spur to his
disinclination, it had occurred to him that he might make one, and
return to his study in a virtuous frame of mind over a slight and
unimportant, but bothersome duty performed. If he had had his wits
about him he might have seen the feminine heads at the windows, he
might have heard the quaver of Miss Bessy Dicky's voice over the club
report; but he saw and heard nothing, and now he was seated in the
midst of the feminine throng, and Miss Bessy Dicky's voice quavered
more, and she assumed a slightly mincing attitude. Her thin hands
trembled more, the hot, red spots on her thin cheeks deepened.
Reading the club reports before the minister was an epoch in an
epochless life, but Karl von Rosen was oblivious of her except as a
disturbing element rather more insistent than the others in which he
was submerged.

[Illustration: He was doomed by his own lack of thought to sit