" "I guess what share you've had in this," whispered Austin to Mrs. As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. They were those of the Irish watchman. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. “I want to speak to you. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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