Nixon," responded Mrs. Sol, viciously accenting the name with her
knitting-needles.

"Rosy, you're unjust. You're prejudiced by the reports of the town.
Mr. Pinkney's interest in her may be a purely artistic one, although
mistaken. She'll never make a good variety-actress: she's too heavy.
And the boys don't give her a fair show. No woman can make a debut in my
version of 'Somnambula,' and have the front row in the pit say to her in
the sleepwalking scene, 'You're out rather late, Mornie. Kinder forgot
to put on your things, didn't you? Mother sick, I suppose, and you're
goin' for more gin? Hurry along, or you'll ketch it when ye get home.'
Why, you couldn't do it yourself, Rosy!"

To which Mrs. Sol's illogical climax was, that, "bad as Rutherford might
be, this Sunday-school superintendent, Rand, was worse."

Rand and his companion returned late, but in high spirits. There was
an unnecessary effusiveness in the way in which Euphemia kissed
Mrs. Sol,--the one woman present, who UNDERSTOOD, and was to be
propitiated,--which did not tend to increase Mrs. Sol's good humor.
She had her basket packed all ready for departure; and even the earnest
solicitation of Rand, that they would defer their going until sunset,
produced no effect.

"Mr. Rand--Mr. Pinkney, I mean--says the sunsets here are so lovely,"
pleaded Euphemia.

"There is a rehearsal at seven o'clock, and we have no time to lose,"
said Mrs. Sol significantly.