Mrs. Barsaloux sat in the middle of her taxi seat all the way home, and saw neither street, edifice, nor human being.  She was looking back into her own busy, confused, and frustrated life, and was remembering certain things which she had believed were buried deep.  Her heart misgave her horribly.  Yet to hand over this bright singing bird, so exquisite, so rare, so fitted for purposes of exposition, to the keeping of a mere male being of unfortunate contiguity, to permit him to carry her into the seclusion of an ordinary home to wait on him and regulate her life according to his whim, was really too fantastic for consideration.  So she put her memories and her tendernesses out of sight and walked up the stairs with purpose in her tread.

* * * * *

She meant to “have it out” with the girl, who was, she believed, reasonable enough after all.

“She’s been without her mother for so long,” she mused, “that it’s no wonder she’s lacking in self-control.  I must have the firmness that a mother would have toward her.  It would be the height of cruelty to let her have her own way in this.”

If the two could have met at that moment, it would have changed the course of both their lives.  But a trifle had intervened.  Marna Cartan had gone walking; and she never came back.  Only, the next day, radiantly beautiful, with fresh flowers in her hands, Marna Fitzgerald came running in begging to be forgiven.  She tried to carry the situation with her impetuosity.  She was laughing, crying, pleading.  She got close to her old friend as if she would enwrap her in her influence.  She had the veritable aspect of the bride.  Whatever others might think regarding her lost career, it was evident that she believed the great hour had just struck for her.  Her husband was with her.

“Haven’t you any apology to make, sir?” poor Mrs. Barsaloux cried to him.  He looked matter-of-fact, she thought, and as if he ought to be able to take a reasonable view of things.  But she had misjudged.  Perhaps it was his plain, everyday, commercial garments which deceived her and made her think him open to week-day arguments; for at that moment he was really a knight of romance, and at Mrs. Barsaloux’s question his eyes gleamed with unsuspected fires.

“Who could be so foolish as to apologize for happiness like ours?” he demanded.

“Aren’t you going to forgive us, dear?” pleaded Marna.

But Mrs. Barsaloux couldn’t quite stand that.

“You sound like an old English comedy, Marna,” she said impatiently.  “You’re of age; I’m no relation to you; you’ve a perfect right to be married.  Better take advantage of being here to pack your things.  You’ll need them.”

“You mean that I’m not expected to come here again, tante?”

“I shall sail for France in a week,” said Mrs. Barsaloux wearily.

“For France, tante?  When did you decide?”