count) who knew the queer old woman. She could indeed pose as the best friend of the saint. That would advance her a long way, further, indeed, than any amount of money. Perhaps they would make Annie Spragg a saint. They'd probably never discover that she was the daughter of old Cyrus Spragg the Prophet, nor ever hear the scandalous stories that had gone the rounds of Winnebago Falls, nor all those things she herself had chosen not to reveal. Father d'Astier had refused to commit himself. Father d'Astier, her shrewdness told her, was a clever man who would need managing if she were to get from him what she desired.
She yearned passionately for a confidante with whom she might discuss all these things, but with Gertrude it was impossible. In her stupidity she would not understand their complications. Undoubtedly she would put upon them the wrong interpretation.
In the placid bosom of Miss Fosdick there was a fury asmoulder and with each stroke of the brush it blazed and gained in strength. She had reached a pitch of boredom and irritation wherein she no longer asked herself whether she was being disloyal. All such self-inquiry was being buried under tides of long-pent-up resentment. It was as if all her softness had for twenty long years concealed a core of inflexibility. She was at that moment giving birth to a character, bringing decision into a soul where before there had been no decision. And it
