But the lady who had mentioned Brainard Macauley cried indignantly: "You

try to change the subject the moment it threatens to be interesting. They

were together everywhere until the day she went away; they danced and 'sat

out' together through the whole of one country-club party; they drove

every afternoon; they took long walks, and he was at the Sherwoods' every

evening of her last week in town. 'That is a mistake!'"

"I'm afraid it looks rather bleak for Wetherford," said the widower. "I

went up to the 'Journal' office on business, one day, and there sat Miss

Sherwood in Macauley's inner temple, chatting with a reporter, while

Brainard finished some work."

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"Helen is eccentric," said the former speaker, "but she's not quite that

eccentric, unless they were engaged. It is well understood that they will

announce it in the fall."

Miss Hinsdale kindly explained to Harkless that Brainard Macauley was the

editor of the "Rouen Morning Journal"--"a very distinguished young man,

not over twenty-eight, and perfectly wonderful." Already a power to be

accounted with in national politics, he was "really a tremendous success,"

and sure to go far; "one of those delicate-looking men, who are yet so

strong you know they won't let the lightning hurt you." It really looked

as if Helen Sherwood (whom Harkless really ought to meet) had actually

been caught in the toils at tet, those toils wherein so many luckless

youths had lain enmeshed for her sake. He must meet Mr. Macauley, too, the

most interesting man in Rouen. After her little portrait of him, didn't

Mr. Harkless agree that it looked really pretty dull for Miss Sherwood's

other lovers?

Mr. Harkless smiled, and agreed that it did indeed. She felt a thrill of

compassion for him, and her subsequent description of the pathos of his

smile was luminous. She said it was natural that a man who had been

through so much suffering from those horrible "White-Cappers" should have

a smile that struck into your heart like a knife.

Despite all that Meredith could do, and after his notorious effort to

shift the subject he could do very little, the light prattle ran on about

Helen Sherwood and Brainard Macauley. Tom abused himself for his wild

notion of cheering his visitor with these people who had no talk, and who,

if they drifted out of commonplace froth, had no medium to float them

unless they sailed the currents, of local personality, and he mentally

upbraided them for a set of gossiping ninnies. They conducted a

conversation (if it could be dignified by a name) of which no stranger

could possibly partake, and which, by a hideous coincidence, was making

his friend writhe, figuratively speaking, for Harkless sat like a fixed

shadow. He uttered scarcely a word the whole evening, though Meredith knew

that his guests would talk about him enthusiastically, the next day, none

the less. The journalist's silence was enforced by the topics; but what

expression and manner the light allowed them to see was friendly and

receptive, as though he listened to brilliant suggestions. He had a nice

courtesy, and Miss Hinsdale felt continually that she was cleverer than

usual this evening, and no one took his silence to be churlish, though

they all innocently wondered why he did not talk more; however, it was

probable that a man who had been so interestingly and terribly shot would

be rather silent for a time afterward.




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