“Surely,” exclaimed Selma, with fire.  “I am thankful I have come in time to help you.  I understand exactly.  I have been passing through just such experiences in New York—­encountering and being rebuffed by just such people as those who belong to this Reform Club.  My husband was beginning to see through them and to recognize that we were both tied hand and foot by their narrowness and lack of enthusiasm when he died.  If he had lived, we would have moved to Benham shortly in order to escape from bondage.  And one thing is certain, dear Mrs. Earle,” she continued with intensity, “we must not permit this carping spirit of hostility to original and spontaneous effort to get a foothold in Benham.  We must crush it, we must stamp it out.”

“Amen, my dear.  I am delighted to hear you talk like that.  I declare you would be very effective in public if you were roused.”

“Yes, I am roused, and I am willing to speak in public if it becomes necessary in order to keep Benham uncontaminated by the insidious canker of exclusiveness and the distrust of aspiring souls which a few narrow minds choose to term untrained.  Am I untrained?  Am I superficial and common?  Do I lack the appearance and behavior of a lady?”

Selma accompanied these interrogatories with successive waves of the hand, as though she were branding so many falsehoods.

“Assuredly not, Selma.  I consider you”—­and here Mrs. Earle gasped in the process of choosing her words—­“I consider you one of our best trained and most independent minds—­cultured, a friend of culture, and an earnest seeker after truth.  If you are not a lady, neither am I, neither is anyone in Benham.  Why do you ask, dear?” And without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Earle added with a touch of material wisdom, “You return to Benham under satisfactory, I might say, brilliant auspices.  You will be the active spirit in this fine house, and be in a position to promote worthy intellectual and moral movements.”

“Thank heavens, yes.  And to combat those which are unworthy and dangerous,” exclaimed Selma, clasping her fingers, “I can count on the support of Mr. Parsons, God bless him!  And it would seem at last as if I had, a real chance—­a real chance at last.  Mrs. Earle—­Cora—­I know you can keep a secret.  I feel almost as though you were my mother, for there is no one else now to whom I can talk like this.  I have not been happy in New York.  I thought I was happy at first, but lately we have been miserable.  My marriage—­er—­they drove my husband to the wall, and killed him.  He was sensitive and noble, but not practical, and he fell a victim to the mercenary despotism of our surroundings.  When I tried to help him they became jealous of me, and shut their doors in our faces.”

“You poor, poor child.  I have suspected for some time that something was wrong.”

“It nearly killed me.  But now, thank heaven, I breathe freely once more.  I have lost my dear husband, but I have escaped from that prison-house; and with his memory to keep me merciless, I am eager to wage war against those influences which are conspiring to fetter the free-born soul and stifle spontaneity.  Luella Bailey must be elected, and these people be taught that foreign ideas may flourish in New York, but cannot obtain root in Benham.”