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“That’s humbling but probably very true. Mayville’s been cooking all day and you’d regret missing the feast. How do you manage to find three square meals a day while living the bachelor life?”
    “My landlady takes care of that necessity, but I could cook if I had to.”
    “Which,” I responded honestly, “is more than I can say for myself.”
    “You’ll have to marry a rich man then, so you won’t need to bother with tedious domestic duties.”
    “I don’t have to marry at all, Allen.” I responded with a smile to take any sting from the words. “An old woman I met in hospital in London once told me that only a very good husband was better than no husband at all and sternly warned me to stay clear of the blessed estate because mighty good husbands were few and far between.”
    “That seems unfairly cynical to males. Do you agree with her, Johanna?”
    The conversation had taken an awkward twist, and I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I welcomed Uncle Hal’s entrance and his invitation to gather in the dining room.
    “Here’s your buffet, Allen. You were right to anticipate it. Mayville never does anything halfway.”
    “It’s not like you to avoid a subject, Johanna. You didn’t answer my last question.”
    “You’re right. I didn’t,” I admitted, laughing, “and now I’m being summoned by my aunt, so I’m not answering it a second time.”
    Later in the evening Grandmother took my arm and drew me to a woman standing quietly to the side.
    “I’d like you to meet my friend Kate Harwood Barrett, Johanna.” The woman was perhaps ten years younger than my grandmother with white hair and clear, dark eyes.
    “How do you do?” I took her extended hand and racked my brain for some faint memory of the name.
    “No, Johanna, you’ve never met Mrs. Barrett before so you may relax.” Occasionally I was grateful for my grandmother’s clairvoyance because it saved me a great deal of mental energy. “Your grandfather handled the Crittentons’ legal affairs for their Chicago venture, and I had the pleasure of meeting Kate when she was appointed to head their national mission.”
    “Are you affiliated with the organization that sponsors the Florence Crittenton homes?” I inquired.
    Kate Barrett smiled. “Yes, for nearly the last three years. Apparently you’ve heard of us,” a slight inquisitive lift at the end of her words.
    “I took my degree in social work from Bryn Mawr. We studied your philosophy and mission.”
    “Which was—?”
    “To provide a home for prostitutes and help them find useful work.”
    “Certainly that was the foundation on which Mr. Crittenton established the first home in New York thirty years ago. Now, though, I see a shift in emphasis. We have found that unwed mothers and other destitute women also need a home and practical skills. The future of our organization lies in expanding our social services, and I believe Mr. Crittenton would approve.” Mrs. Barrett spoke decisively in a voice moderated with a southern softness. “Your grandmother speaks very highly of your credentials, Miss Swan. What are your future plans?”
    I was embarrassed but answered honestly, “At the moment I don’t have any. I suppose I’ll try to find work at one of our local hospitals, Mrs. Barrett.”
    “Doctor Barrett,” Grandmother corrected gently.
    I looked at the woman. “Medical doctor?”
    “I’m a doctor of obstetrics, Miss Swan, which is why, I suppose, I feel so strongly about the need to help indigent and unwed mothers. Are you aware there is a Crittenton Home here in Chicago?”
    “No.”
    “The Anchorage Home is located on Indiana Avenue and run by a very good and competent woman named Hilda Cartwright. I’d like you to meet her.”
    “Why?” My grandmother gave a quiet sigh at my blunt question.
    “Because you are an intelligent woman with very fine qualifications and your grandmother assures me you have a practical compassion as well. Such a combination could