colored woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid entered and stood ready. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell walked slowly to the door and stepped out. Then she turned.
“What does Miss Wynn do for a living?”
The girl tittered.
‚ÄúShe used to teach school but she don‚Äôt do nothing now. She‚Äôs just married; her husband is Mr. ¬ÝStillings, Register of the Treasury.‚Äù
Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. There was but one resource‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe must keep the matter out of the newspapers, and see Stillings, whom she now remembered well.
“I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in the art exhibition?”
Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter, and the maid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers and be blazoned tomorrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on its cushions.
“Where to, Madame?” asked the chauffeur.
“I don’t care,” returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.
She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans seemed about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.
Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, as she feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro woman, and quarrel with her‚ÅÝ‚Äî