It was she whom St.George approached.
"I beg your pardon, madame," he said, "is this the Readers' Guild ?" There was nothing in St.George's grave face and deferential stooping of shoulders to betray how his heart was beating or what a bound it gave at her amazing reply.
"Ah," she said, "how do you do ?"--and her manner had that violent absent-mindedness which almost always proves that its possessor has trained a large family of children--"I am so glad that you can be with us to-day.

I am Mrs.Manners--forgive me," she besought with perfectly self-possessed distractedness, "I'm afraid that I've forgotten your name." "My name is St.George," he answered as well as he could for virtual speechlessness.
The other members of the Guild were issuing from the room, and Mrs.
Manners turned.

She had a fashion of smiling enchantingly, as if to compensate her total lack of attention.
"Ladies," she said, "this is Mr.St.George, at last." Then she went through their names to him, and St.George bowed and caught at the flying end of the name of the woman nearest him, and muttered to them all.

The one nearest was a Miss Bella Bliss Utter, a little brown nut of a woman with bead eyes.
"Ah, Mr.St.George," said Miss Utter rapidly, "it has been a wonderful meeting.

I wish you might have been with us.