Mrs. Arles had been at home a week or so; the evening was chilly with rain, and a little fire flickered on the hearth. Mrs. Arles sat on one side of the hearth, with her tatting in hand; Éloise bent above the papers scattered over a small table.
"See what it is to go away!" said Éloise, cheerily. "It's like light in a painting, as the Sisters used to say,—brings out all the shadows."
"Nobody knew how indispensable I was," said the other lady, with the fragment of expression in the phantom of a smile.
"How pleasant it is to be missed! I did miss you so,—it seemed as if one of the four sides of the walls were gone. Now we stand—what is that word of Aristotle's?—four-square again. Now our universe is on wheels. Just tell me how you tamed Hazel so. She has conducted like a little wild gorilla all summer,—and here, in the twinkling of an eye, she goes about soberly, like a baptized Christian. How?"
"By a process of induction."
"You don't mean"—
"Oh, no. Nothing of the kind. I didn't touch her. I sent her into my room, and told her to take down that little riding-switch hanging over the mantel"—
"What,—the ebony and gold?"
"Yes. And to whip all the flies out of the air with it. It makes a monstrous whizzing. There's no such thing as actual experience for these imps of the vivid nerves. And when she came down I looked at her, and asked her how she liked the singing. Her conduct now leads me to believe that she has no desire to hear the tune again."
The hearer winced a trifle before lightly replying,—