It was still early in the afternoon when she left the hotel and drove to the Crawfords’.

“So you have come at last,” cried Mrs. Crawford, who was fifty years of age and stout, but leaner in the face than fat Englishwomen of that age usually are.

“I just expected you’d soon git tired of being grand all by yourself in the hotel yonder.”

“I fear I shall have to be the reverse of grand all by myself in some very shabby lodging,” said Marian.  “Dont be surprised Mrs. Crawford.  Can one live in New York on ten dollars a week?”

“You cant live on ten dollars a week in New York nor on a hundred.  You rode here, didnt you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course.  If you have only ten dollars a week you should have walked.  I know the sort you are, Mrs. Forster.  You wont be long getting rid of your money, no matter where you live.  But whats wrong?  Hows your husband?”

“I dont know.  I hope he is quite well,” said Marian, her voice trembling a little.  “Mrs. Crawford:  you are the only friend I have in America; and you have been so very kind to me that since I must trouble some one, I have ventured to come to you.  The truth is that I have left my husband; and I have only about one hundred dollars in the world.  I must live on that until I get some employment, or perhaps some money of my own from England.”

“Chut, child!  Nawnsnse!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawford, with benevolent intolerance.  “You go right back to your husband.  I spose youve had a rumpus with him; but you mustnt mind that.  All men are a bit selfish; and I should say from what I have seen of him that he is no exception to the rule.  But you cant have perfection.  He’s a fine handsome fellow; and he knows it.  And, as for you, I dont know what they reckon you in England; but youre the best-looking woman in Noo York:  thats surtn.  It’s a pity for such a pair to fall out.”

“He is not selfish,” said Marian.  “You never saw him.  I am afraid I must shock you, Mrs. Crawford.  Mr. Forster is not my husband.”

“No!  Do!  Did you ever tell the General that?”

“General Crawford!  Oh, no.”

“Think of that man being cuter than me, a woman!  He always said so.  And the grit you must have, to tell it out as cool as that!  Well!  I’m sorry to hear it though, Mrs. Forster.  It’s a bad account—­a very bad one.  But if I take what you said just now rightly, youre married.”

“I am.  I have deserted a very good husband.”

“It’s a pity you didnt find that out a little sooner, isnt it?”

“I know, Mrs. Crawford.  I thought I was acting for the best.”

“Thought you were acting for the best in running away from a good husband!  Well, you British aristocrats are singular.  You throw stones at us because our women are so free and our divorces so easy.  Yet youre always scandlizing us; and now you tell me youve done it on morl grounds!  Who educated you, child?  And what do you intend to do now?”