"It sounded to me like a knock—"
"Yes,—"
"—and then a cry, faint, but like a woman's voice."
They spoke in guarded tones, but the old carriage driver, who had been in the family for twenty years and was a privileged character, heard and touched his hat.
"Dat was a crazy woman, miss, de p'liceman say, tryin' to git in widout no ticket. Dey run 'er in. Yaas, miss."
A knot of men who had likewise heard the knock discussed it as they walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
"He's been wild," said one, raising his brow, and his companion answered with easy tolerance,
"Oh, yes, of course. But he has sowed his wild oats, and now he is ready to settle down."
A lady, passing, caught the words and their drift.
"Did you ever notice," she said thoughtfully to her husband, who walked beside her, "that people always say, 'Oh well, he has sowed his wild oats,' as if that finished it? But in the country, where I was born, we sow our oats and know that we will reap. I imagine 'wild oats' are not very different from other kinds."