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      Xingu, by Edith Wharton
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Xingu, by Edith Wharton

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Xingu
       1916

Author: Edith Wharton

Release Date: January 3, 2008 [EBook #24131]
Last Updated: October 3, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK XINGU ***




Produced by David Widger





</pre>
    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      XINGU
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Edith Wharton <br /><br /> Copyright, 1916, By Charles Scribner&rsquo;s Sons
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents
    </h2>
    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a>
          </p>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      I
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue Culture in bands, as though
      it were dangerous to meet alone. To this end she had founded the Lunch
      Club, an association composed of herself and several other indomitable
      huntresses of erudition. The Lunch Club, after three or four winters of
      lunching and debate, had acquired such local distinction that the
      entertainment of distinguished strangers became one of its accepted
      functions; in recognition of which it duly extended to the celebrated
      &ldquo;Osric Dane,&rdquo; on the day of her arrival in Hillbridge, an invitation to be
      present at the next meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      The club was to meet at Mrs. Bellinger&rsquo;s. The other members, behind her
      back, were of one voice in deploring her unwillingness to cede her rights
      in favor of Mrs. Plinth, whose house made a more impressive setting for
      the entertainment of celebrities; while, as Mrs. Leveret observed, there
      was always the picture-gallery to fall back on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth made no secret of sharing this view. She had always regarded
      it as one of her obligations to entertain the Lunch Club&rsquo;s distinguished
      guests. Mrs. Plinth was almost as proud of her obligations as she was of
      her picture-gallery; she was in fact fond of implying that the one
      possession implied the other, and that only a woman of her wealth could
      afford to live up to a standard as high as that which she had set herself.
      An all-round sense of duty, roughly adaptable to various ends, was, in her
      opinion, all that Providence exacted of the more humbly stationed; but the
      power which had predestined Mrs. Plinth to keep a footman clearly intended
      her to maintain an equally specialized staff of responsibilities. It was
      the more to be regretted that Mrs. Ballinger, whose obligations to society
      were bounded by the narrow scope of two parlour-maids, should have been so
      tenacious of the right to entertain Osric Dane.
    </p>
    <p>
      The question of that lady&rsquo;s reception had for a month past profoundly
      moved the members of the Lunch Club. It was not that they felt themselves
      unequal to the task, but that their sense of the opportunity plunged them
      into the agreeable uncertainty of the lady who weighs the alternatives of
      a well-stocked wardrobe. If such subsidiary members as Mrs. Leveret were
      fluttered by the thought of exchanging ideas with the author of &ldquo;The Wings
      of Death,&rdquo; no forebodings disturbed the conscious adequacy of Mrs. Plinth,
      Mrs. Ballinger and Miss Van Vluyck. &ldquo;The Wings of Death&rdquo; had, in fact, at
      Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s suggestion, been chosen as the subject of discussion at
      the last club meeting, and each member had thus been enabled to express
      her own opinion or to appropriate whatever sounded well in the comments of
      the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby alone had abstained from profiting by the opportunity; but it
      was now openly recognised that, as a member of the Lunch Club, Mrs. Roby
      was a failure. &ldquo;It all comes,&rdquo; as Miss Van Vluyck put it, &ldquo;of accepting a
      woman on a man&rsquo;s estimation.&rdquo; Mrs. Roby, returning to Hillbridge from a
      prolonged sojourn in exotic lands&mdash;the other ladies no longer took
      the trouble to remember where&mdash;had been heralded by the distinguished
      biologist, Professor Foreland, as the most agreeable woman he had ever
      met; and the members of the Lunch Club, impressed by an encomium that
      carried the weight of a diploma, and rashly assuming that the Professor&rsquo;s
      social sympathies would follow the line of his professional bent, had
      seized the chance of annexing a biological member. Their disillusionment
      was complete. At Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s first off-hand mention of the
      pterodactyl Mrs. Roby had confusedly murmured: &ldquo;I know so little about
      metres&mdash;&rdquo; and after that painful betrayal of incompetence she had
      prudently withdrawn from farther participation in the mental gymnastics of
      the club.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose she flattered him,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck summed up&mdash;&ldquo;or else
      it&rsquo;s the way she does her hair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dimensions of Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s dining-room having restricted the
      membership of the club to six, the nonconductiveness of one member was a
      serious obstacle to the exchange of ideas, and some wonder had already
      been expressed that Mrs. Roby should care to live, as it were, on the
      intellectual bounty of the others. This feeling was increased by the
      discovery that she had not yet read &ldquo;The Wings of Death.&rdquo; She owned to
      having heard the name of Osric Dane; but that&mdash;incredible as it
      appeared&mdash;was the extent of her acquaintance with the celebrated
      novelist. The ladies could not conceal their surprise; but Mrs. Ballinger,
      whose pride in the club made her wish to put even Mrs. Roby in the best
      possible light, gently insinuated that, though she had not had time to
      acquaint herself with &ldquo;The Wings of Death,&rdquo; she must at least be familiar
      with its equally remarkable predecessor, &ldquo;The Supreme Instant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby wrinkled her sunny brows in a conscientious effort of memory, as
      a result of which she recalled that, oh, yes, she <i>had</i> seen the book
      at her brother&rsquo;s, when she was staying with him in Brazil, and had even
      carried it off to read one day on a boating party; but they had all got to
      shying things at each other in the boat, and the book had gone overboard,
      so she had never had the chance&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The picture evoked by this anecdote did not increase Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s credit
      with the club, and there was a painful pause, which was broken by Mrs.
      Plinth&rsquo;s remarking:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can understand that, with all your other pursuits, you should not find
      much time for reading; but I should have thought you might at least have
      <i>got up</i> &lsquo;The Wings of Death&rsquo; before Osric Dane&rsquo;s arrival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby took this rebuke good-humouredly. She had meant, she owned, to
      glance through the book; but she had been so absorbed in a novel of
      Trollope&rsquo;s that&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one reads Trollope now,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby looked pained. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m only just beginning,&rdquo; she confessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And does he interest you?&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth enquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He amuses me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amusement,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth, &ldquo;is hardly what I look for in my choice of
      books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, certainly, &lsquo;The Wings of Death&rsquo; is not amusing,&rdquo; ventured Mrs.
      Leveret, whose manner of putting forth an opinion was like that of an
      obliging salesman with a variety of other styles to submit if his first
      selection does not suit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it <i>meant</i> to be?&rdquo; enquired Mrs. Plinth, who was fond of asking
      questions that she permitted no one but herself to answer. &ldquo;Assuredly
      not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assuredly not&mdash;that is what I was going to say,&rdquo; assented Mrs.
      Leveret, hastily rolling up her opinion and reaching for another. &ldquo;It was
      meant to&mdash;to elevate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck adjusted her spectacles as though they were the black cap
      of condemnation. &ldquo;I hardly see,&rdquo; she interposed, &ldquo;how a book steeped in
      the bitterest pessimism can be said to elevate however much it may
      instruct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I meant, of course, to instruct,&rdquo; said Mrs. Leveret, flurried by the
      unexpected distinction between two terms which she had supposed to be
      synonymous. Mrs. Leveret&rsquo;s enjoyment of the Lunch Club was frequently
      marred by such surprises; and not knowing her own value to the other
      ladies as a mirror for their mental complacency she was sometimes troubled
      by a doubt of her worthiness to join in their debates. It was only the
      fact of having a dull sister who thought her clever that saved her, from a
      sense of hopeless inferiority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do they get married in the end?&rdquo; Mrs. Roby interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They&mdash;who?&rdquo; the Lunch Club collectively exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the girl and man. It&rsquo;s a novel, isn&rsquo;t it? I always think that&rsquo;s the
      one thing that matters. If they&rsquo;re parted it spoils my dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalised glances, and the
      latter said: &ldquo;I should hardly advise you to read &lsquo;The Wings of Death&rsquo; in
      that spirit. For my part, when there are so many books one <i>has</i> to
      read; I wonder how any one can find time for those that are merely
      amusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The beautiful part of it,&rdquo; Laura Glyde murmured, &ldquo;is surely just this&mdash;that
      no one can tell how &lsquo;The Wings of Death&rsquo; ends. Osric Dane, overcome by the
      awful significance of her own meaning, has mercifully veiled it&mdash;perhaps
      even from herself&mdash;as Apelles, in representing the sacrifice of
      Iphigenia, veiled the face of Agamemnon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that? Is it poetry?&rdquo; whispered Mrs. Leveret to Mrs. Plinth, who,
      disdaining a definite reply, said coldly: &ldquo;You should look it up. I always
      make it a point to look things up.&rdquo; Her tone added&mdash;&ldquo;though I might
      easily have it done for me by the footman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was about to say,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck resumed, &ldquo;that it must always be a
      question whether a book <i>can</i> instruct unless it elevates.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;&rdquo; murmured Mrs. Leveret, now feeling herself hopelessly astray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ballinger, scenting in Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s tone a
      tendency to depreciate the coveted distinction of entertaining Osric Dane;
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that such a question can seriously be raised as to a book
      which has attracted more attention among thoughtful people than any novel
      since &lsquo;Robert Elsmere.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but don&rsquo;t you see,&rdquo; exclaimed Laura Glyde, &ldquo;that it&rsquo;s just the dark
      hopelessness of it all&mdash;the wonderful tone-scheme of black on black&mdash;that
      makes it such an artistic achievement? It reminded me when I read it of
      Prince Rupert&rsquo;s <i>manière noire</i>...the book is etched, not painted,
      yet one feels the colour-values so intensely....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret whispered to her neighbour. &ldquo;Some one she&rsquo;s met
      abroad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The wonderful part of the book,&rdquo; Mrs. Bellinger conceded, &ldquo;is that it may
      be looked at from so many points of view. I hear that as a study of
      determinism Professor Lupton ranks it with &lsquo;The Data of Ethics.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m told that Osric Dane spent ten years in preparatory studies before
      beginning to write it,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth. &ldquo;She looks up everything&mdash;verifies
      everything. It has always been my principle, as you know. Nothing would
      induce me, now, to put aside a book before I&rsquo;d finished it, just because I
      can buy as many more as I want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do <i>you</i> think of &lsquo;The Wings of Death&rsquo;?&rdquo; Mrs. Roby abruptly
      asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the kind of question that might be termed out of order, and the
      ladies glanced at each other as though disclaiming any share in such a
      breach of discipline. They all knew there was nothing Mrs. Plinth so much
      disliked as being asked her opinion of a book. Books were written to read;
      if one read them what more could be expected? To be questioned in detail
      regarding the contents of a volume seemed to her as great an outrage as
      being searched for smuggled laces at the Custom House. The club had always
      respected this idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s. Such opinions as she had
      were imposing and substantial: her mind, like her house, was furnished
      with monumental &ldquo;pieces&rdquo; that were not meant to be disarranged; and it was
      one of the unwritten rules of the Lunch Club that, within her own
      province, each member&rsquo;s habits of thought should be respected. The meeting
      therefore closed with an increased sense, on the part of the other ladies,
      of Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s hopeless unfitness to be one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      II
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret, on the eventful day, arrived early at Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s, her
      volume of Appropriate Allusions in her pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      It always flustered Mrs. Leveret to be late at the Lunch Club: she liked
      to collect her thoughts and gather a hint, as the others assembled, of the
      turn the conversation was likely to take. To-day, however, she felt
      herself completely at a loss; and even the familiar contact of Appropriate
      Allusions, which stuck into her as she sat down, failed to give her any
      reassurance. It was an admirable little volume, compiled to meet all the
      social emergencies; so that, whether on the occasion of Anniversaries,
      joyful or melancholy (as the classification ran), of Banquets, social or
      municipal, or of Baptisms, Church of England or sectarian, its student
      need never be at a loss for a pertinent reference. Mrs. Leveret, though
      she had for years devoutly conned its pages, valued it, however, rather
      for its moral support than for its practical services; for though in the
      privacy of her own room she commanded an army of quotations, these
      invariably deserted her at the critical moment, and the only phrase she
      retained&mdash;<i>Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook</i>?&mdash;was
      one she had never yet found occasion to apply.
    </p>
    <p>
      To-day she felt that even the complete mastery of the volume would hardly
      have insured her self-possession; for she thought it probable that, even
      if she <i>did</i>, in some miraculous way, remember an Allusion, it would
      be only to find that Osric Dane used a different volume (Mrs. Leveret was
      convinced that literary people always carried them), and would
      consequently not recognise her quotations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret&rsquo;s sense of being adrift was intensified by the appearance of
      Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s drawing-room. To a careless eye its aspect was unchanged;
      but those acquainted with Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s way of arranging her books
      would instantly have detected the marks of recent perturbation. Mrs.
      Ballinger&rsquo;s province, as a member of the Lunch Club, was the Book of the
      Day. On that, whatever it was, from a novel to a treatise on experimental
      psychology, she was confidently, authoritatively &ldquo;up.&rdquo; What became of last
      year&rsquo;s books, or last week&rsquo;s even; what she did with the &ldquo;subjects&rdquo; she
      had previously professed with equal authority; no one had ever yet
      discovered. &lsquo;Her mind was an hotel where facts came and went like
      transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently
      without paying for their board. It was Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s boast that she was
      &ldquo;abreast with the Thought of the Day,&rdquo; and her pride that this advanced
      position should be expressed by the books on her table. These volumes,
      frequently renewed, and almost always damp from the press, bore names
      generally unfamiliar to Mrs. Leveret, and giving her, as she furtively
      scanned them, a disheartening glimpse of new fields of knowledge to be
      breathlessly traversed in Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s wake. But to-day a number of
      maturer-looking volumes were adroitly mingled with the <i>primeurs</i> of
      the press&mdash;Karl Marx jostled Professor Bergson, and the &ldquo;Confessions
      of St. Augustine&rdquo; lay beside the last work on &ldquo;Mendelism&rdquo;; so that even to
      Mrs. Leveret&rsquo;s fluttered perceptions it was clear that Mrs. Ballinger
      didn&rsquo;t in the least know what Osric Dane was likely to talk about, and had
      taken measures to be prepared for anything. Mrs. Leveret felt like a
      passenger on an ocean steamer who is told that there is no immediate
      danger, but that she had better put on her life-belt.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a relief to be roused from these forebodings by Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s
      arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; the new-comer briskly asked her hostess, &ldquo;what subjects
      are we to discuss to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger was furtively replacing a volume of Wordsworth by a copy of
      Verlaine. &ldquo;I hardly know,&rdquo; she said, somewhat nervously. &ldquo;Perhaps we had
      better leave that to circumstances.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Circumstances?&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck drily. &ldquo;That means, I suppose, that
      Laura Glyde will take the floor as usual, and we shall be deluged with
      literature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Philanthropy and statistics were Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s province, and she
      resented any tendency to divert their guest&rsquo;s attention from these topics.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth at this moment appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Literature?&rdquo; she protested in a tone of remonstrance. &ldquo;But this is
      perfectly unexpected. I understood we were to talk of Osric Dane&rsquo;s novel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger winced at the discrimination, but let it pass. &ldquo;We can
      hardly make that our chief subject&mdash;at least not <i>too</i>
      intentionally,&rdquo; she suggested. &ldquo;Of course we can let our talk <i>drift</i>
      in that direction; but we ought to have some other topic as an
      introduction, and that is what I wanted to consult you about. The fact is,
      we know so little of Osric Dane&rsquo;s tastes and interests that it is
      difficult to make any special preparation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be difficult,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth with decision, &ldquo;but it is
      necessary. I know what that happy-go-lucky principle leads to. As I told
      one of my nieces the other day, there are certain emergencies for which a
      lady should always be prepared. It&rsquo;s in shocking taste to wear colours
      when one pays a visit of condolence, or a last year&rsquo;s dress when there are
      reports that one&rsquo;s husband is on the wrong side of the market; and so it
      is with conversation. All I ask is that I should know beforehand what is
      to be talked about; then I feel sure of being able to say the proper
      thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I quite agree with you,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger assented; &ldquo;but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And at that instant, heralded by the fluttered parlourmaid, Osric Dane
      appeared upon the threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret told her sister afterward that she had known at a glance what
      was coming. She saw that Osric Dane was not going to meet them half way.
      That distinguished personage had indeed entered with an air of compulsion
      not calculated to promote the easy exercise of hospitality. She looked as
      though she were about to be photographed for a new edition of her books.
    </p>
    <p>
      The desire to propitiate a divinity is generally in inverse ratio to its
      responsiveness, and the sense of discouragement produced by Osric Dane&rsquo;s
      entrance visibly increased the Lunch Club&rsquo;s eagerness to please her. Any
      lingering idea that she might consider herself under an obligation to her
      entertainers was at once dispelled by her manner: as Mrs. Leveret said
      afterward to her sister, she had a way of looking at you that made you
      feel as if there was something wrong with your hat. This evidence of
      greatness produced such an immediate impression on the ladies that a
      shudder of awe ran through them when Mrs. Roby, as their hostess led the
      great personage into the dining-room, turned back to whisper to the
      others: &ldquo;What a brute she is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hour about the table did not tend to revise this verdict. It was
      passed by Osric Dane in the silent deglutition of Mrs. Bollinger&rsquo;s menu,
      and by the members of the club in the emission of tentative platitudes
      which their guest seemed to swallow as perfunctorily as the successive
      courses of the luncheon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s reluctance to fix a topic had thrown the club into a
      mental disarray which increased with the return to the drawing-room, where
      the actual business of discussion was to open. Each lady waited for the
      other to speak; and there was a general shock of disappointment when their
      hostess opened the conversation by the painfully commonplace enquiry. &ldquo;Is
      this your first visit to Hillbridge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even Mrs. Leveret was conscious that this was a bad beginning; and a vague
      impulse of deprecation made Miss Glyde interject: &ldquo;It is a very small
      place indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth bristled. &ldquo;We have a great many representative people,&rdquo; she
      said, in the tone of one who speaks for her order.
    </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane turned to her. &ldquo;What do they represent?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s constitutional dislike to being questioned was intensified
      by her sense of unpreparedness; and her reproachful glance passed the
      question on to Mrs. Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said that lady, glancing in turn at the other members, &ldquo;as a
      community I hope it is not too much to say that we stand for culture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For art&mdash;&rdquo; Miss Glyde interjected.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For art and literature,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger emended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for sociology, I trust,&rdquo; snapped Miss Van Vluyck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have a standard,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth, feeling herself suddenly secure on
      the vast expanse of a generalisation; and Mrs. Leveret, thinking there
      must be room for more than one on so broad a statement, took courage to
      murmur: &ldquo;Oh, certainly; we have a standard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The object of our little club,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger continued, &ldquo;is to
      concentrate the highest tendencies of Hillbridge&mdash;to centralise and
      focus its intellectual effort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was felt to be so happy that the ladies drew an almost audible breath
      of relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We aspire,&rdquo; the President went on, &ldquo;to be in touch with whatever is
      highest in art, literature and ethics.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane again turned to her. &ldquo;What ethics?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tremor of apprehension encircled the room. None of the ladies required
      any preparation to pronounce on a question of morals; but when they were
      called ethics it was different. The club, when fresh from the
      &ldquo;Encyclopaedia Britannica,&rdquo; the &ldquo;Reader&rsquo;s Handbook&rdquo; or Smith&rsquo;s &ldquo;Classical
      Dictionary,&rdquo; could deal confidently with any subject; but when taken
      unawares it had been known to define agnosticism as a heresy of the Early
      Church and Professor Froude as a distinguished histologist; and such minor
      members as Mrs. Leveret still secretly regarded ethics as something
      vaguely pagan.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even to Mrs. Ballinger, Osric Dane&rsquo;s question was unsettling, and there
      was a general sense of gratitude when Laura Glyde leaned forward to say,
      with her most sympathetic accent: &ldquo;You must excuse us, Mrs. Dane, for not
      being able, just at present, to talk of anything but &lsquo;The Wings of
      Death.&rdquo;&rsquo; 
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck, with a sudden resolve to carry the war into
      the enemy&rsquo;s camp. &ldquo;We are so anxious to know the exact purpose you had in
      mind in writing your wonderful book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will find,&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth interposed, &ldquo;that we are not superficial
      readers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are eager to hear from you,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck continued, &ldquo;if the
      pessimistic tendency of the book is an expression of your own convictions
      or&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or merely,&rdquo; Miss Glyde thrust in, &ldquo;a sombre background brushed in to
      throw your figures into more vivid relief. <i>Are</i> you not primarily
      plastic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have always maintained,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger interposed, &ldquo;that you represent
      the purely objective method&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane helped herself critically to coffee. &ldquo;How do you define
      objective?&rdquo; she then enquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a flurried pause before Laura Glyde intensely murmured: &ldquo;In
      reading <i>you</i> we don&rsquo;t define, we feel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Otsric Dane smiled. &ldquo;The cerebellum,&rdquo; she remarked, &ldquo;is not infrequently
      the seat of the literary emotions.&rdquo; And she took a second lump of sugar.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sting that this remark was vaguely felt to conceal was almost
      neutralised by the satisfaction of being addressed in such technical
      language.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the cerebellum,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck complacently. &ldquo;The club took a
      course in psychology last winter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which psychology?&rdquo; asked Osric Dane.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an agonising pause, during which each member of the club
      secretly deplored the distressing inefficiency of the others. Only Mrs.
      Roby went on placidly sipping her chartreuse. At last Mrs. Ballinger said,
      with an attempt at a high tone: &ldquo;Well, really, you know, it was last year
      that we took psychology, and this winter we have been so absorbed in&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She broke off, nervously trying to recall some of the club&rsquo;s discussions;
      but her faculties seemed to be paralysed by the petrifying stare of Osric
      Dane. What <i>had</i> the club been absorbed in? Mrs. Ballinger, with a
      vague purpose of gaining time, repeated slowly: &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve been so intensely
      absorbed in&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby put down her liqueur glass and drew near the group with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Xingu?&rdquo; she gently prompted.
    </p>
    <p>
      A thrill ran through the other members. They exchanged confused glances,
      and then, with one accord, turned a gaze of mingled relief and
      interrogation on their rescuer. The expression of each denoted a different
      phase of the same emotion. Mrs. Plinth was the first to compose her
      features to an air of reassurance: after a moment&rsquo;s hasty adjustment her
      look almost implied that it was she who had given the word to Mrs.
      Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Xingu, of course!&rdquo; exclaimed the latter with her accustomed promptness,
      while Miss Van Vluyck and Laura Glyde seemed to be plumbing the depths of
      memory, and Mrs. Leveret, feeling apprehensively for Appropriate
      Allusions, was somehow reassured by the uncomfortable pressure of its bulk
      against her person.
    </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane&rsquo;s change of countenance was no less striking than that of her
      entertainers. She too put down her coffee-cup, but with a look of distinct
      annoyance; she too wore, for a brief moment, what Mrs. Roby afterward
      described as the look of feeling for something in the back of her head;
      and before she could dissemble these momentary signs of weakness, Mrs.
      Roby, turning to her with a deferential smile, had said: &ldquo;And we&rsquo;ve been
      so hoping that to-day you would tell us just what you think of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane received the homage of the smile as a matter of course; but the
      accompanying question obviously embarrassed her, and it became clear to
      her observers that she was not quick at shifting her facial scenery. It
      was as though her countenance had so long been set in an expression of
      unchallenged superiority that the muscles had stiffened, and refused to
      obey her orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Xingu&mdash;&rdquo; she said, as if seeking in her turn to gain time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby continued to press her. &ldquo;Knowing how engrossing the subject is,
      you will understand how it happens that the club has let everything else
      go to the wall for the moment. Since we took up Xingu I might almost say&mdash;were
      it not for your books&mdash;that nothing else seems to us worth
      remembering.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane&rsquo;s stern features were darkened rather than lit up by an uneasy
      smile. &ldquo;I am glad to hear that you make one exception,&rdquo; she gave out
      between narrowed lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course,&rdquo; Mrs. Roby said prettily; &ldquo;but as you have shown us that&mdash;so
      very naturally!&mdash;you don&rsquo;t care to talk of your own things, we really
      can&rsquo;t let you off from telling us exactly what you think about Xingu;
      especially,&rdquo; she added, with a still more persuasive smile, &ldquo;as some
      people say that one of your last books was saturated with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was an <i>it</i>, then&mdash;the assurance sped like fire through the
      parched minds of the other members. In their eagerness to gain the least
      little clue to Xingu they almost forgot the joy of assisting at the
      discomfiture of Mrs. Dane.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter reddened nervously under her antagonist&rsquo;s challenge. &ldquo;May I
      ask,&rdquo; she faltered out, &ldquo;to which of my books you refer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby did not falter. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s just what I want you to tell us;
      because, though I was present, I didn&rsquo;t actually take part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Present at what?&rdquo; Mrs. Dane took her up; and for an instant the trembling
      members of the Lunch Club thought that the champion Providence had raised
      up for them had lost a point. But Mrs. Roby explained herself gaily: &ldquo;At
      the discussion, of course. And so we&rsquo;re dreadfully anxious to know just
      how it was that you went into the Xingu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a portentous pause, a silence so big with incalculable dangers
      that the members with one accord checked the words on their lips, like
      soldiers dropping their arms to watch a single combat between their
      leaders. Then Mrs. Dane gave expression to their inmost dread by saying
      sharply: &ldquo;Ah&mdash;you say <i>the</i> Xingu, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby smiled undauntedly. &ldquo;It is a shade pedantic, isn&rsquo;t it?
      Personally, I always drop the article; but I don&rsquo;t know how the other
      members feel about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other members looked as though they would willingly have dispensed
      with this appeal to their opinion, and Mrs. Roby, after a bright glance
      about the group, went on: &ldquo;They probably think, as I do, that nothing
      really matters except the thing itself&mdash;except Xingu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No immediate reply seemed to occur to Mrs. Dane, and Mrs. Ballinger
      gathered courage to say: &ldquo;Surely every one must feel that about Xingu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth came to her support with a heavy murmur of assent, and Laura
      Glyde sighed out emotionally: &ldquo;I have known cases where it has changed a
      whole life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has done me worlds of good,&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret interjected, seeming to
      herself to remember that she had either taken it or read it the winter
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; Mrs. Roby admitted, &ldquo;the difficulty is that one must give up
      so much time to it. It&rsquo;s very long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t imagine,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck, &ldquo;grudging the time given to such
      a subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And deep in places,&rdquo; Mrs. Roby pursued; (so then it was a book!) &ldquo;And it
      isn&rsquo;t easy to skip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never skip,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth dogmatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it&rsquo;s dangerous to, in Xingu. Even at the start there are places where
      one can&rsquo;t. One must just wade through.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should hardly call it <i>wading</i>,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ballinger
      sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby sent her a look of interest. &ldquo;Ah&mdash;you always found it went
      swimmingly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger hesitated. &ldquo;Of course there are difficult passages,&rdquo; she
      conceded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; some are not at all clear&mdash;even,&rdquo; Mrs. Roby added, &ldquo;if one is
      familiar with the original.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I suppose you are?&rdquo; Osric Dane interposed, suddenly fixing her with a
      look of challenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby met it by a deprecating gesture. &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s really not difficult
      up to a certain point; though some of the branches are very little known,
      and it&rsquo;s almost impossible to get at the source.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever tried?&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth enquired, still distrustful of Mrs.
      Roby&rsquo;s thoroughness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Roby was silent for a moment; then she replied with lowered lids: &ldquo;No&mdash;but
      a friend of mine did; a very brilliant man; and he told me it was best for
      women&mdash;not to....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shudder ran around the room. Mrs. Leveret coughed so that the
      parlour-maid, who was handing the cigarettes, should not hear; Miss Van
      Vluyck&rsquo;s face took on a nauseated expression, and Mrs. Plinth looked as if
      she were passing some one she did not care to bow to. But the most
      remarkable result of Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s words was the effect they produced on the
      Lunch Club&rsquo;s distinguished guest. Osric Dane&rsquo;s impassive features suddenly
      softened to an expression of the warmest human sympathy, and edging her
      chair toward Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s she asked: &ldquo;Did he really? And&mdash;did you find
      he was right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger, in whom annoyance at Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s unwonted assumption of
      prominence was beginning to displace gratitude for the aid she had
      rendered, could not consent to her being allowed, by such dubious means,
      to monopolise the attention of their guest. If Osric Dane had not enough
      self-respect to resent Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s flippancy, at least the Lunch Club
      would do so in the person of its President.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger laid her hand on Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s arm. &ldquo;We must not forget,&rdquo; she
      said with a frigid amiability, &ldquo;that absorbing as Xingu is to <i>us</i>,
      it may be less interesting to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, on the contrary, I assure you,&rdquo; Osric Dane intervened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;to others,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger finished firmly; &ldquo;and we must not allow
      our little meeting to end without persuading Mrs. Dane to say a few words
      to us on a subject which, to-day, is much more present in all our
      thoughts. I refer, of course, to &lsquo;The Wings of Death.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other members, animated by various degrees of the same sentiment, and
      encouraged by the humanised mien of their redoubtable guest, repeated
      after Mrs. Ballinger: &ldquo;Oh, yes, you really <i>must</i> talk to us a little
      about your book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Osric Dane&rsquo;s expression became as bored, though not as haughty, as when
      her work had been previously mentioned. But before she could respond to
      Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s request, Mrs. Roby had risen from her seat, and was
      pulling down her veil over her frivolous nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m so sorry,&rdquo; she said, advancing toward her hostess with outstretched
      hand, &ldquo;but before Mrs. Dane begins I think I&rsquo;d better run away. Unluckily,
      as you know, I haven&rsquo;t read her books, so I should be at a terrible
      disadvantage among you all, and besides, I&rsquo;ve an engagement to play
      bridge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Mrs. Roby had simply pleaded her ignorance of Osric Dane&rsquo;s works as a
      reason for withdrawing, the Lunch Club, in view of her recent prowess,
      might have approved such evidence of discretion; but to couple this excuse
      with the brazen announcement that she was foregoing the privilege for the
      purpose of joining a bridge-party was only one more instance of her
      deplorable lack of discrimination.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies were disposed, however, to feel that her departure&mdash;now
      that she had performed the sole service she was ever likely to render them&mdash;would
      probably make for greater order and dignity in the impending discussion,
      besides relieving them of the sense of self-distrust which her presence
      always mysteriously produced. Mrs. Ballinger therefore restricted herself
      to a formal murmur of regret, and the other members were just grouping
      themselves comfortably about Osric Dane when the latter, to their dismay,
      started up from the sofa on which she had been seated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh wait&mdash;do wait, and I&rsquo;ll go with you!&rdquo; she called out to Mrs.
      Roby; and, seizing the hands of the disconcerted members, she administered
      a series of farewell pressures with the mechanical haste of a
      railway-conductor punching tickets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m so sorry&mdash;I&rsquo;d quite forgotten&mdash;&rdquo; she flung back at them
      from the threshold; and as she joined Mrs. Roby, who had turned in
      surprise at her appeal, the other ladies had the mortification of hearing
      her say, in a voice which she did not take the pains to lower: &ldquo;If you&rsquo;ll
      let me walk a little way with you, I should so like to ask you a few more
      questions about Xingu....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      III
    </h2>
    <p>
      The incident had been so rapid that the door closed on the departing pair
      before the other members had time to understand what was happening. Then a
      sense of the indignity put upon them by Osric Dane&rsquo;s unceremonious
      desertion began to contend with the confused feeling that they had been
      cheated out of their due without exactly knowing how or why.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a silence, during which Mrs. Ballinger, with a perfunctory hand,
      rearranged the skilfully grouped literature at which her distinguished
      guest had not so much as glanced; then Miss Van Vluyck tartly pronounced:
      &ldquo;Well, I can&rsquo;t say that I consider Osric Dane&rsquo;s departure a great loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This confession crystallised the resentment of the other members, and Mrs.
      Leveret exclaimed: &ldquo;I do believe she came on purpose to be nasty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s private opinion that Osric Dane&rsquo;s attitude toward the
      Lunch Club might have been very different had it welcomed her in the
      majestic setting of the Plinth drawing-rooms; but not liking to reflect on
      the inadequacy of Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s establishment she sought a roundabout
      satisfaction in depreciating her lack of foresight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said from the first that we ought to have had a subject ready. It&rsquo;s
      what always happens when you&rsquo;re unprepared. Now if we&rsquo;d only got up Xingu&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slowness of Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s mental processes was always allowed for by
      the club; but this instance of it was too much for Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s
      equanimity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Xingu!&rdquo; she scoffed. &ldquo;Why, it was the fact of our knowing so much more
      about it than she did&mdash;unprepared though we were&mdash;that made
      Osric Dane so furious. I should have thought that was plain enough to
      everybody!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This retort impressed even Mrs. Plinth, and Laura Glyde, moved by an
      impulse of generosity, said: &ldquo;Yes, we really ought to be grateful to Mrs.
      Roby for introducing the topic. It may have made Osric Dane furious, but
      at least it made her civil.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad we were able to show her,&rdquo; added Miss Van Vluyck, &ldquo;that a broad
      and up-to-date culture is not confined to the great intellectual centres.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This increased the satisfaction of the other members, and they began to
      forget their wrath against Osric Dane in the pleasure of having
      contributed to her discomfiture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck thoughtfully rubbed her spectacles. &ldquo;What surprised me
      most,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;was that Fanny Roby should be so up on Xingu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This remark threw a slight chill on the company, but Mrs. Ballinger said
      with an air of indulgent irony: &ldquo;Mrs. Roby always has the knack of making
      a little go a long way; still, we certainly owe her a debt for happening
      to remember that she&rsquo;d heard of Xingu.&rdquo; And this was felt by the other
      members to be a graceful way of cancelling once for all the club&rsquo;s
      obligation to Mrs. Roby.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Mrs. Leveret took courage to speed a timid shaft of irony. &ldquo;I fancy
      Osric Dane hardly expected to take a lesson in Xingu at Hillbridge!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger smiled. &ldquo;When she asked me what we represented&mdash;do you
      remember?&mdash;I wish I&rsquo;d simply said we represented Xingu!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the ladies laughed appreciatively at this sally, except Mrs. Plinth,
      who said, after a moment&rsquo;s deliberation: &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not sure it would have been
      wise to do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger, who was already beginning to feel as if she had launched
      at Osric Dane the retort which had just occurred to her, turned ironically
      on Mrs. Plinth. &ldquo;May I ask why?&rdquo; she enquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth looked grave. &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I understood from Mrs. Roby
      herself that the subject was one it was as well not to go into too
      deeply?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck rejoined with precision: &ldquo;I think that applied only to an
      investigation of the origin of the&mdash;of the&mdash;&ldquo;; and suddenly she
      found that her usually accurate memory had failed her. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a part of the
      subject I never studied myself/,&rdquo; she concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laura Glyde bent toward them with widened eyes. &ldquo;And yet it seems&mdash;doesn&rsquo;t
      it?&mdash;the part that is fullest of an esoteric fascination?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know on what you base that,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck
      argumentatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, didn&rsquo;t you notice how intensely interested Osric Dane became as
      soon as she heard what the brilliant foreigner&mdash;he <i>was</i> a
      foreigner, wasn&rsquo;t he?&mdash;had told Mrs. Roby about the origin&mdash;the
      origin of the rite&mdash;or whatever you call it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth looked disapproving, and Mrs. Ballinger visibly wavered. Then
      she said: &ldquo;It may not be desirable to touch on the&mdash;on that part of
      the subject in general conversation; but, from the importance it evidently
      has to a woman of Osric Dane&rsquo;s distinction, I feel as if we ought not to
      be afraid to discuss it among ourselves&mdash;without gloves&mdash;though
      with closed doors, if necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m quite of your opinion,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck came briskly to her support;
      &ldquo;on condition, that is, that all grossness of language is avoided.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m sure we shall understand without that,&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret tittered;
      and Laura Glyde added significantly: &ldquo;I fancy we can read between the
      lines,&rdquo; while Mrs. Ballinger rose to assure herself that the doors were
      really closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth had not yet given her adhesion. &ldquo;I hardly see,&rdquo; she began,
      &ldquo;what benefit is to be derived from investigating such peculiar customs&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s patience had reached the extreme limit of tension.
      &ldquo;This at least,&rdquo; she returned; &ldquo;that we shall not be placed again in the
      humiliating position of finding ourselves less up on our own subjects than
      Fanny Roby!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even to Mrs. Plinth this argument was conclusive. She peered furtively
      about the room and lowered her commanding tones to ask: &ldquo;Have you got a
      copy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A&mdash;a copy?&rdquo; stammered Mrs. Ballinger. She was aware that the other
      members were looking at her expectantly, and that this answer was
      inadequate, so she supported it by asking another question. &ldquo;A copy of
      what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her companions bent their expectant gaze on Mrs. Plinth, who, in turn,
      appeared less sure of herself than usual. &ldquo;Why, of&mdash;of&mdash;the
      book,&rdquo; she explained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What book?&rdquo; snapped Miss Van Vluyck, almost as sharply as Osric Dane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger looked at Laura Glyde, whose eyes were interrogatively
      fixed on Mrs. Leveret. The fact of being deferred to was so new to the
      latter that it filled her with an insane temerity. &ldquo;Why, Xingu, of
      course!&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      A profound silence followed this challenge to the resources of Mrs.
      Ballinger&rsquo;s library, and the latter, after glancing nervously toward the
      Books of the Day, returned with dignity: &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not a thing one cares to
      leave about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should think not!&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Plinth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>is</i> a book, then?&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck.
    </p>
    <p>
      This again threw the company into disarray, and Mrs. Ballinger, with an
      impatient sigh, rejoined: &ldquo;Why&mdash;there <i>is</i> a book&mdash;naturally....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why did Miss Glyde call it a religion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Laura Glyde started up. &ldquo;A religion? I never&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you did,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck insisted; &ldquo;you spoke of rites; and Mrs.
      Plinth said it was a custom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Glyde was evidently making a desperate effort to recall her
      statement; but accuracy of detail was not her strongest point. At length
      she began in a deep murmur: &ldquo;Surely they used to do something of the kind
      at the Eleusinian mysteries&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck, on the verge of disapproval; and Mrs.
      Plinth protested: &ldquo;I understood there was to be no indelicacy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger could not control her irritation. &ldquo;Really, it is too bad
      that we should not be able to talk the matter over quietly among
      ourselves. Personally, I think that if one goes into Xingu at all&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, so do I!&rdquo; cried Miss Glyde.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t see how one can avoid doing so, if one wishes to keep up with
      the Thought of the Day&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret uttered an exclamation of relief. &ldquo;There&mdash;that&rsquo;s it!&rdquo;
       she interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s it?&rdquo; the President took her up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;it&rsquo;s a&mdash;a Thought: I mean a philosophy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This seemed to bring a certain relief to Mrs. Ballinger and Laura Glyde,
      but Miss Van Vluyck said: &ldquo;Excuse me if I tell you that you&rsquo;re all
      mistaken. Xingu happens to be a language.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A language!&rdquo; the Lunch Club cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly. Don&rsquo;t you remember Fanny Roby&rsquo;s saying that there were several
      branches, and that some were hard to trace? What could that apply to but
      dialects?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger could no longer restrain a contemptuous laugh. &ldquo;Really, if
      the Lunch Club has reached such a pass that it has to go to Fanny Roby for
      instruction on a subject like Xingu, it had almost better cease to exist!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s really her fault for not being clearer,&rdquo; Laura Glyde put in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, clearness and Fanny Roby!&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger shrugged. &ldquo;I daresay we
      shall find she was mistaken on almost every point.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not look it up?&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a rule this recurrent suggestion of Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s was ignored in the
      heat of discussion, and only resorted to afterward in the privacy of each
      member&rsquo;s home. But on the present occasion the desire to ascribe their own
      confusion of thought to the vague and contradictory nature of Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s
      statements caused the members of the Lunch Club to utter a collective
      demand for a book of reference.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point the production of her treasured volume gave Mrs. Leveret,
      for a moment, the unusual experience of occupying the centre front; but
      she was not able to hold it long, for Appropriate Allusions contained no
      mention of Xingu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s not the kind of thing we want!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Van Vluyck. She
      cast a disparaging glance over Mrs. Ballinger&rsquo;s assortment of literature,
      and added impatiently: &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t you any useful books?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course I have,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Ballinger indignantly; &ldquo;I keep them in my
      husband&rsquo;s dressing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From this region, after some difficulty and delay, the parlour-maid
      produced the W-Z volume of an Encyclopaedia and, in deference to the fact
      that the demand for it had come from Miss Van Vluyck, laid the ponderous
      tome before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a moment of painful suspense while Miss Van Vluyck rubbed her
      spectacles, adjusted them, and turned to Z; and a murmur of surprise when
      she said: &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; said Mrs. Plinth, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not fit to be put in a book of
      reference.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, nonsense!&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Ballinger. &ldquo;Try X.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck turned back through the volume, peering short-sightedly up
      and down the pages, till she came to a stop and remained motionless, like
      a dog on a point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, have you found it?&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger enquired after a considerable
      delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I&rsquo;ve found it,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck in a queer voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth hastily interposed: &ldquo;I beg you won&rsquo;t read it aloud if there&rsquo;s
      anything offensive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck, without answering, continued her silent scrutiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what <i>is</i> it?&rdquo; exclaimed Laura Glyde excitedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Do</i> tell us!&rdquo; urged Mrs. Leveret, feeling that she would have
      something awful to tell her sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck pushed the volume aside and turned slowly toward the
      expectant group.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a river.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A <i>river?</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes: in Brazil. Isn&rsquo;t that where she&rsquo;s been living?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? Fanny Roby? Oh, but you must be mistaken. You&rsquo;ve been reading the
      wrong thing,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger exclaimed, leaning over her to seize the
      volume.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the only Xingu in the Encyclopaedia; and she <i>has</i> been living
      in Brazil,&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes: her brother has a consulship there,&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s too ridiculous! I&mdash;we&mdash;why we <i>all</i> remember
      studying Xingu last year&mdash;or the year before last,&rdquo; Mrs. Ballinger
      stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I did when <i>you</i> said so,&rdquo; Laura Glyde avowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said so?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. You said it had crowded everything else out of your mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well <i>you</i> said it had changed your whole life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For that matter. Miss Van Vluyck said she had never grudged the time
      she&rsquo;d given it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth interposed: &ldquo;I made it clear that I knew nothing whatever of
      the original.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger broke off the dispute with a groan. &ldquo;Oh, what does it all
      matter if she&rsquo;s been making fools of us? I believe Miss Van Vluyck&rsquo;s right&mdash;she
      was talking of the river all the while!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could she? It&rsquo;s too preposterous,&rdquo; Miss Glyde exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen.&rdquo; Miss Van Vluyck had repossessed herself of the Encyclopaedia,
      and restored her spectacles to a nose reddened by excitement. &ldquo;&lsquo;The Xingu,
      one of the principal rivers of Brazil, rises on the plateau of Mato
      Grosso, and flows in a northerly direction for a length of no less than
      one thousand one hundred and eighteen miles, entering the Amazon near the
      mouth of the latter river. The upper course of the Xingu is auriferous and
      fed by numerous branches. Its source was first discovered in 1884 by the
      German explorer von den Steinen, after a difficult and dangerous
      expedition through a region inhabited by tribes still in the Stone Age of
      culture.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies received this communication in a state of stupefied silence
      from which Mrs. Leveret was the first to rally. &ldquo;She certainly <i>did</i>
      speak of its having branches.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word seemed to snap the last thread of their incredulity. &ldquo;And of its
      great length,&rdquo; gasped Mrs. Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She said it was awfully deep, and you couldn&rsquo;t skip&mdash;you just had to
      wade through,&rdquo; Miss Glyde added.
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea worked its way more slowly through Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s compact
      resistances. &ldquo;How could there be anything improper about a river?&rdquo; she
      enquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Improper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what she said about the source&mdash;that it was corrupt?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not corrupt, but hard to get at,&rdquo; Laura Glyde corrected. &ldquo;Some one who&rsquo;d
      been there had told her so. I daresay it was the explorer himself&mdash;doesn&rsquo;t
      it say the expedition was dangerous?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Difficult and dangerous,&rsquo;&rdquo; read Miss Van Vluyck.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ballinger pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
      nothing she said that wouldn&rsquo;t apply to a river&mdash;to this river!&rdquo; She
      swung about excitedly to the other members. &ldquo;Why, do you remember her
      telling us that she hadn&rsquo;t read &lsquo;The Supreme Instant&rsquo; because she&rsquo;d taken
      it on a boating party while she was staying with her brother, and some one
      had &lsquo;shied&rsquo; it overboard&mdash;&lsquo;shied&rsquo; of course was her own expression.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ladies breathlessly signified that the expression had not escaped
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;and then didn&rsquo;t she tell Osric Dane that one of her books was
      simply saturated with Xingu? Of course it was, if one of Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s rowdy
      friends had thrown it into the river!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This surprising reconstruction of the scene in which they had just
      participated left the members of the Lunch Club inarticulate. At length,
      Mrs. Plinth, after visibly labouring with the problem, said in a heavy
      tone: &ldquo;Osric Dane was taken in too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret took courage at this. &ldquo;Perhaps that&rsquo;s what Mrs. Roby did it
      for. She said Osric Dane was a brute, and she may have wanted to give her
      a lesson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck frowned. &ldquo;It was hardly worth while to do it at our
      expense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least,&rdquo; said Miss Glyde with a touch of bitterness, &ldquo;she succeeded in
      interesting her, which was more than we did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What chance had we?&rdquo; rejoined Mrs. Ballinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Roby monopolised her from the first. And <i>that</i>, I&rsquo;ve no doubt,
      was her purpose&mdash;to give Osric Dane a false impression of her own
      standing in the club. She would hesitate at nothing to attract attention:
      we all know how she took in poor Professor Foreland.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She actually makes him give bridge-teas every Thursday,&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret
      piped up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laura Glyde struck her hands together. &ldquo;Why, this is Thursday, and it&rsquo;s <i>there</i>
      she&rsquo;s gone, of course; and taken Osric with her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And they&rsquo;re shrieking over us at this moment,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ballinger
      between her teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      This possibility seemed too preposterous to be admitted. &ldquo;She would hardly
      dare,&rdquo; said Miss Van Vluyck, &ldquo;confess the imposture to Osric Dane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure: I thought I saw her make a sign as she left. If she
      hadn&rsquo;t made a sign, why should Osric Dane have rushed out after her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know, we&rsquo;d all been telling her how wonderful Xingu was, and
      she said she wanted to find out more about it,&rdquo; Mrs. Leveret said, with a
      tardy impulse of justice to the absent.
    </p>
    <p>
      This reminder, far from mitigating the wrath of the other members, gave it
      a stronger impetus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;and that&rsquo;s exactly what they&rsquo;re both laughing over now,&rdquo; said
      Laura Glyde ironically.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Plinth stood up and gathered her expensive furs about her monumental
      form. &ldquo;I have no wish to criticise,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but unless the Lunch Club
      can protect its members against the recurrence of such&mdash;such
      unbecoming scenes, I for one&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, so do I!&rdquo; agreed Miss Glyde, rising also.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Van Vluyck closed the Encyclopaedia and proceeded to button herself
      into her jacket &ldquo;My time is really too valuable&mdash;&rdquo; she began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy we are all of one mind,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ballinger, looking searchingly
      at Mrs. Leveret, who looked at the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always deprecate anything like a scandal&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has been the cause of one to-day!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Glyde.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leveret moaned: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see how she <i>could!</i>&rdquo; and Miss Van
      Vluyck said, picking up her note-book: &ldquo;Some women stop at nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;but if,&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth took up her argument impressively, &ldquo;anything
      of the kind had happened in <i>my</i> house&rdquo; (it never would have, her
      tone implied), &ldquo;I should have felt that I owed it to myself either to ask
      for Mrs. Roby&rsquo;s resignation&mdash;or to offer mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Plinth&mdash;&rdquo; gasped the Lunch Club.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fortunately for me,&rdquo; Mrs. Plinth continued with an awful magnanimity,
      &ldquo;the matter was taken out of my hands by our President&rsquo;s decision that the
      right to entertain distinguished guests was a privilege vested in her
      office; and I think the other members will agree that, as she was alone in
      this opinion, she ought to be alone in deciding on the best way of
      effacing its&mdash;its really deplorable consequences.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A deep silence followed this outbreak of Mrs. Plinth&rsquo;s long-stored
      resentment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see why I should be expected to ask her to resign&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs.
      Ballinger at length began; but Laura Glyde turned back to remind her: &ldquo;You
      know she made you say that you&rsquo;d got on swimmingly in Xingu.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An ill-timed giggle escaped from Mrs. Leveret, and Mrs. Ballinger
      energetically continued &ldquo;&mdash;but you needn&rsquo;t think for a moment that
      I&rsquo;m afraid to!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door of the drawing-room closed on the retreating backs of the Lunch
      Club, and the President of that distinguished association, seating herself
      at her writing-table, and pushing away a copy of &ldquo;The Wings of Death&rdquo; to
      make room for her elbow, drew forth a sheet of the club&rsquo;s note-paper, on
      which she began to write: &ldquo;My dear Mrs. Roby&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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