The girl tittered.
"She used to teach school but she don't do nothing now. She's just married; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the Treasury."
Mrs. Cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. There was but one resource—she must keep the matter out of the newspapers, and see Stillings, whom she now remembered well.
"I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in the art exhibition?"
Mrs. Cresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter, and the maid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers and be blazoned to-morrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on its cushions.
"Where to, Madame?" asked the chauffeur.
"I don't care," returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.
She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans seemed about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.
Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, as she feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro woman, and quarrel with her—
But he must not. This very night, before the morning papers came out, she must explain. He must see; he must appreciate her efforts.