"Nothing of any moment. This afternoon, Miss Cara, the girl who sang
last night, came to see me. You may remember I told you I knew her
father."
"It seems to me I do."
"Things have not gone well there and I advanced her a trifle for him."
Mrs. Austen unfurled her fan. It was all Honest Injun. She had not a
doubt of it and never had. But if she had thought it a Sioux and
Comanche story, it would have been the same to her.
"I am sorry you did not meet her," Lennox continued. "You might have
lent her a hand."
"Professionally, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I might have her sing here," replied Mrs. Austen, who would have seen
Cassy hanged first.
Lennox considered the picture: Mrs. Austen in the role of shepherdess,
herding for Cassy's benefit the flock of sheep that society is. But the
picture did not detain him. He stood up.
"That would be very good of you. Please tell Margaret I am sorry she has
a headache and that I will look in on her to-morrow."