Mrs. Horn believed in the world and in society and its unwritten constitution devoutly, and she tolerated her niece’s benevolent activities as she tolerated her aesthetic sympathies because these things, however oddly, were tolerated ­even encouraged ­by society; and they gave Margaret a charm.  They made her originality interesting.  Mrs. Horn did not intend that they should ever go so far as to make her troublesome; and it was with a sense of this abeyant authority of her aunt’s that the girl asked her approval of her proposed call upon the Dryfooses.  She explained as well as she could the social destitution of these opulent people, and she had of course to name Beaton as the source of her knowledge concerning them.

“Did Mr. Beaton suggest your calling on them?”

“No; he rather discouraged it.”

“And why do you think you ought to go in this particular instance?  New York is full of people who don’t know anybody.”

Margaret laughed.  “I suppose it’s like any other charity:  you reach the cases you know of.  The others you say you can’t help, and you try to ignore them.”

“It’s very romantic,” said Mrs. Horn.  “I hope you’ve counted the cost; all the possible consequences.”

Margaret knew that her aunt had in mind their common experience with the Leightons, whom, to give their common conscience peace, she had called upon with her aunt’s cards and excuses, and an invitation for her Thursdays, somewhat too late to make the visit seem a welcome to New York.  She was so coldly received, not so much for herself as in her quality of envoy, that her aunt experienced all the comfort which vicarious penance brings.  She did not perhaps consider sufficiently her niece’s guiltlessness in the expiation.  Margaret was not with her at St. Barnaby in the fatal fortnight she passed there, and never saw the Leightons till she went to call upon them.  She never complained:  the strain of asceticism, which mysteriously exists in us all, and makes us put peas, boiled or unboiled, in our shoes, gave her patience with the snub which the Leightons presented her for her aunt.  But now she said, with this in mind:  “Nothing seems simpler than to get rid of people if you don’t want them.  You merely have to let them alone.”

“It isn’t so pleasant, letting them alone,” said Mrs. Horn.

“Or having them let you alone,” said Margaret; for neither Mrs. Leighton nor Alma had ever come to enjoy the belated hospitality of Mrs. Horn’s Thursdays.

“Yes, or having them let you alone,” Mrs. Horn courageously consented.  “And all that I ask you, Margaret, is to be sure that you really want to know these people.”

“I don’t,” said the girl, seriously, “in the usual way.”

“Then the question is whether you do in the un usual way.  They will build a great deal upon you,” said Mrs. Horn, realizing how much the Leightons must have built upon her, and how much out of proportion to her desert they must now dislike her; for she seemed to have had them on her mind from the time they came, and had always meant to recognize any reasonable claim they had upon her.

“It seems very odd, very sad,” Margaret returned, “that you never could act unselfishly in society affairs.  If I wished to go and see those girls just to do them a pleasure, and perhaps because if they’re strange and lonely, I might do them good, even ­it would be impossible.”

“Quite,” said her aunt.  “Such a thing would be quixotic.  Society doesn’t rest upon any such basis.  It can’t; it would go to pieces, if people acted from unselfish motives.”

“Then it’s a painted savage!” said the girl.  “All its favors are really bargains.  It’s gifts are for gifts back again.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Mrs. Horn, with no more sense of wrong in the fact than the political economist has in the fact that wages are the measure of necessity and not of merit.  “You get what you pay for.  It’s a matter of business.”  She satisfied herself with this formula, which she did not invent, as fully as if it were a reason; but she did not dislike her niece’s revolt against it.  That was part of Margaret’s originality, which pleased her aunt in proportion to her own conventionality; she was really a timid person, and she liked the show of courage which Margaret’s magnanimity often reflected upon her.  She had through her a repute, with people who did not know her well, for intellectual and moral qualities; she was supposed to be literary and charitable; she almost had opinions and ideals, but really fell short of their possession.  She thought that she set bounds to the girl’s originality because she recognized them.  Margaret understood this better than her aunt, and knew that she had consulted her about going to see the Dryfooses out of deference, and with no expectation of luminous instruction.  She was used to being a law to herself, but she knew what she might and might not do, so that she was rather a by-law.  She was the kind of girl that might have fancies for artists and poets, but might end by marrying a prosperous broker, and leavening a vast lump of moneyed and fashionable life with her culture, generosity, and good-will.  The intellectual interests were first with her, but she might be equal to sacrificing them; she had the best heart, but she might know how to harden it; if she was eccentric, her social orbit was defined; comets themselves traverse space on fixed lines.  She was like every one else, a congeries of contradictions and inconsistencies, but obedient to the general expectation of what a girl of her position must and must not finally be.  Provisionally, she was very much what she liked to be.