 Book 1, Chapter 11 of THE HOUSE OF MERTH by Edith Wharton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Meanwhile, the holidays had gone by, and the season was beginning. Fifth Avenue had become a nightly torrent of carriages, surging upward to the fashionable quarters about the park, where illuminated windows and outspread awnings betoken the usual routine of hospitality. Other tributary currents crossed the mainstream, bearing their freight to the theatres, restaurants or opera, and Mrs. Peniston, from the secluded watchtower of her upper window, could tell to a nicety just when the chronic volume of sound was increased by the sudden influx setting toward a Van Osberg ball, or when the multiplication of wheels meant merely that the opera was over, or that there was a big supper at Sherry's. Mrs. Peniston followed the rise and culmination of the season as keenly as the most active sharer in its ganties, and as a looker on she enjoyed opportunities of comparison and generalization such as those who take part most proverbially forego. No one could have kept a more accurate record of social fluctuations, or have put a more unerring finger on the distinguishing features of each season, its dullness, its extravagance, its lack of balls, or excess of divorces. She had a special memory for the vicitudes of the new people who rose to the surface with each recurring tide, and were either submerged beneath its rush, or landed triumphantly beyond the reach of envious breakers, and she was apt to display a remarkable retrospective insight into their ultimate fate, so that when they had fulfilled their destiny she was almost always able to say to Grace Stepney, the recipient of her prophecies, that she had known exactly what would happen. This particular season Mrs. Peniston would have characterized as that in which everybody felt poor except the Wellie Brice and Mr. Simon Rosdale. It had been a bad autumn in Wall Street, where prices fell in accordance with that peculiar law which proves railway stocks and bales of cotton to be more sensitive to the allotment of executive power than many estimable citizens trained to all the advantages of self-government. Even fortunes supposed to be independent of the market either portrayed a secret dependence on it or suffered from a sympathetic affection. Fashion sulked in its country houses, or came to town in cognito. General entertainments were discountenanced, and informality and short dinners became the fashion. But society amused for a while at playing Cinderella, soon worried of the heartheside role, and welcomed the fairy-godmother in the shape of any magician powerful enough to turn the shrunken pumpkin back again into the golden coach. The mere fact of growing richer at a time when most people s investments are shrinking is calculated to attract envious attention, and according to Wall Street rumors Wellie Brice and Rosdale had found the secret of performing this miracle. Rosdale in particular was said to have doubled his fortune, and there was talk of his buying the newly finished house of one of the victims of the crash, who in the space of twelve short months had made the same number of millions. Built a house in Fifth Avenue filled a picture gallery with old masters entertained all New York in it, and been smuggled out of the country between a trained nurse and a doctor while his creditors mounted guard over the old masters, and his guests explained to each other that they had dined with him only because they wanted to see the pictures. Mr. Rosdale meant to have a less meteoric career. He knew he should have to go slowly, and the instincts of his race fitted him to suffer rebuffs and put up with delays. But he was prompt to perceive that the general dullness of the season afforded him an unusual opportunity to shine, and he set about with patient industry to form a background for his growing glory. Mrs. Fisher was of immense service to him at this period. She had set off so many newcomers on the social stage that she was like one of those pieces of stock scenery which told the experienced spectator exactly what is going to take place. But Mr. Rosdale wanted, in the long run, a more individual environment. He was sensitive to shades of difference which Miss Bart would never have credited him with perceiving because he had no corresponding variations of manner, and it was becoming more and more clear to him that Miss Bart herself possessed precisely the complementary qualities needed to round off his social personality. Such details did not fall within the range of Mrs. Peniston's vision. Like many minds of panoramic sweep hers was apt to overlook the minutiae of the foreground, but she was much more likely to know where Carrie Fisher had found the welly brides' chef for them than what was happening to her own niece. She was not, however, without purveyors of information ready to supplement her deficiencies. Grace Dupney's mind was like a kind of moral flypaper to which the buzzing items of gossip were drawn by a fatal attraction, and where they hung fast in the toils of an inexorable memory. Lily would have been surprised to know how many trivial facts concerning herself were lodged in Miss Dupney's head. She was quite aware that she was of interest to dengy people, but she assumed that there is only one form of dinginess, and that admiration for brilliancy is the natural expression of its inferior state. She knew that Gertie Farrish admired her blindly, and therefore suppose that she inspired the same sentiments in Grace Dupney, whom she classified as a Gertie Farrish without the saving traits of youth and enthusiasm. In reality the two differed from each other as much as they differed from the object of their mutual contemplation. Miss Farrish's heart was a fountain of tender illusions. Miss Dupney's, a precise register of facts as manifested in their relation to herself, she had sensibilities which, to Lily, would have seemed comic in a person who, with a freckled nose and red eyelids, who lived in a boarding-house and admired Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room. But poor Grace's limitations gave them a more concentrated inner life as poor soil starved certain plants into, in tensor, efflorescence. She had in truth no abstract propensity to malice. She did not dislike Lily because the latter was brilliant and predominant, but because she thought that Lily disliked her. It is less mortifying to believe oneself unpopular than insignificant, and Vanity prefers to assume that indifference is a latent form of unfriendliness. Even such scant civilities as Lily accorded to Mr. Rosedale would have made Miss Dupney her friend for life. But how could she foresee that such a friend was worth cultivating? How, moreover, can a young woman who has never been ignored measure the pang which this injury inflicts? And lastly, how could Lily, accustomed to chis between a pressure of engagements, guess that she had mortally offended Miss Dupney by causing her to be excluded from one of Mrs. Peniston's infrequent dinner parties? Miss Peniston disliked giving dinners, but she had a high sense of family obligation, and on the Jack Dupney's return from their honeymoon she felt it incumbent upon her to light the drawing-room lamps and extract her best silver from the safe deposit vaults. Mrs. Peniston's rare entertainments were preceded by days of heart-rending vacillation as to every detail of the feast, from the seating of the guests to the pattern on the tablecloth. And in the course of one of these preliminary discussions she had imprudently suggested to her cousin Grace that, as the dinner was a family affair, she might be included in it. For a week the prospect had lightened up Miss Dupney's colorless existence. Then she had been given to understand that it would be more convenient to have her another day. Miss Dupney knew exactly what had happened. Eventually to whom family reunions were occasions of unalloyed dullness had persuaded her aunt that a dinner of smart people would be much more to the taste of the young couple, and Mrs. Peniston, who leaned helplessly on her niece in social matters, had been prevailed upon to pronounce Grace's exile. After all, Grace could come any other day. Why should she mind being put off? It was precisely because Miss Dupney could come any other day, and because she knew her relations were in the secret of her unoccupied evenings, that this incident loomed gigantically on her horizon. She was aware that she had Lily to thank for it, and dull resentment was turned to active animosity. Miss Peniston, on whom she had looked in a day or two after the dinner, laid down her crochet-work, and turned abruptly from her oblique survey of Fifth Avenue. Guss-Trainer, Lily and Guss-Trainer, she said, growing so suddenly pale that her visitor was almost alarmed. Oh, Cousin Julia, of course I don't mean. I don't know what you do mean, said Mrs. Peniston, with the frightened quiver of her small, fretful voice. Such things were never heard of in my day, and my own niece, I'm not sure I understand you. Do people say he's in love with her? Mrs. Peniston's horror was genuine. Though she boasted an unequaled familiarity with the secret chronicles of society, she had the innocence of the schoolgirl who regards wickedness as part of history, and to whom it never occurs that the scandals she reads of, in listened hours, may be repeating themselves in the next street. Mrs. Peniston had kept her imagination shrouded, like the drawing-room furniture. She knew, of course, that society was very much changed, and that women her mother would have thought peculiar were now in a position to be critical about their visiting lists. She had discussed the perils of divorce with her rector, and had felt thankful at times that Lily was still unmarried. But the idea that any scandal could be attached to a young girl's name, above all that it could be lightly coupled with that of a married man, was so new to her that she was as much aghast as if she had been accused of leaving her carpets down all summer, or of violating any of the other cardinal laws of housekeeping. Miss Stepney, when her first fright had subsided, began to feel the superiority that greater breadth of mind confers. It was really pitiable to be as ignorant of the world as Mrs. Peniston. She smiled at the latter's question. People always say unpleasant things, and certainly they're a great deal together. A friend of mine met them the other afternoon in the park, quite late, after the lamps were lit. It's a pity Lily makes her so soak conspicuous. "'Conspicuous!' gasped Mrs. Peniston. She bent forward, lowering her voice to mitigate the horror. What sort of things do they say? What he means to get a divorce and marry her?' Grace Stepney laughed outright. "'Dear me, no. He would hardly do that. It's a flirtation. Nothing more. A flirtation between my niece and a married man, do you mean to tell me that, with Lily's looks and advantages, she could find no better use for her time than to waste it on a fat, stupid man almost old enough to be her father?' This argument had such a convincing ring that it gave Mrs. Peniston sufficient reassurance to pick up her work, while she waited for Grace Stepney to rally her scattered forces. But Miss Stepney was on the spot in an instant. That's the worst of it. People say she isn't wasting her time. Everyone knows, as you say, that Lily is too handsome and charming to devote herself to a man like Gus Trannor, unless— Unless? echoed Mrs. Peniston. Her visitor drew breath nervously. It was agreeable to shock Mrs. Peniston, but not to shock her to the verge of anger. Miss Stepney, who was not sufficiently familiar with the classic drama, to have recalled in advance how bearers of bad tidings are proverbially received, but she now had a rapid vision of forfeited dinners and a reduced wardrobe as a possible consequence of her disinterestedness. To the honor of her sex, however, hatred of Lily prevailed over more personal considerations. Mrs. Peniston had chosen the wrong moment to boast of her nieces' charms. Unless? said Grace, leaning forward to speak with low-toned emphasis. Unless there are material advantages to be gained by making herself agreeable to him. She felt that the moment was tremendous, and remembered suddenly that Mrs. Peniston's black brocade with cut-jut French would have been hers at the end of the season. Mrs. Peniston put down her work again. Another aspect of the same idea had presented itself to her, and she felt that it was beneath her dignity to have her nerves wracked by a dependent relative who wore her old clothes. If you take pleasure in annoying me by mysterious insinuations," she said coldly, you might at least have chosen a more suitable time than just as I am recovering from the strain of giving a large dinner. The mention of the dinner dispelled Miss Dupney's last scruples. I don't know why I should be accused of taking pleasure in telling you about Lily. I was sure I shouldn't get any thanks for it. She returned with a flair of temper. But I have some family feeling left, and as you are the only person who has any authority over Lily, I thought you ought to know that what is being said of her. Well said Mrs. Peniston, what I complain of is that you haven't told me yet what is being said. I don't suppose I should have to put it so plainly. People say that Gus Traynor pays her bills. Pays her bills? Her bills? Mrs. Peniston broke into a laugh. I can't imagine where you can have picked up such rubbish. Lily has her own income, and I provide for her very handsomely. Oh, we all know that. Interposed Miss Dupney dryly, but Lily wears a great many smart gowns. I like her to be well dressed. It's only suitable. Certainly, but then there are her gambling debts besides. Miss Dupney, in the beginning, had not meant to bring up this point, but Mrs. Peniston had only her own incredulity to blame. She was like the stiff-necked unbelievers of scripture, who must be annihilated to be convinced. Camping debts, Lily? Mrs. Peniston's voice shook with anger and bewilderment. She wondered whether Grace Dupney had gone out of her mind. What do you mean by her gambling debts? Simply that if one plays bridge for money and Lily's set, one is liable to lose a great deal, and I don't suppose Lily always wins. Who told you that my niece played cards for money? Mercy-cousin Julia, don't look at me as if I was trying to turn you against Lily. Nobody knows she is crazy about bridge. Mrs. Grace told me herself that it was her gambling that frightened Percy Grace. It seems he was really taken with her, at first. But of course, among Lily's friends it's quite the custom for girls to play for money. In fact, people are inclined to excuse her on that account. To excuse her for what? For being hard up, and accepting attentions from men like Gus Traynor and George Dorsett, Mrs. Peniston gave another cry. George Dorsett! Is there anyone else? I should like to know the worse, if you please. Don't put it in that way, Cousin Julia. Lately Lily has been a good deal with the Dorsets, and he seems to admire her. But of course that's only natural. And I'm sure there is no truth in the horrid things people say, but she has been spending a great deal of money this winter. Evie van Osberg was at Celeste ordering her to sew the other day. Yes, the marriage takes place next month. And she told me that Celeste showed her the most exquisite things she was just sending home to Lily. And people say that Judy Traynor has quarreled with her on account of Gus. But I'm sure I'm sorry I spoke, though I only meant it as a kindness. Mrs. Peniston's genuine incredulity enabled her to dismiss Miss Stepney with a disdain which boated ill for that lady's prospect of succeeding to the black procade. But mine's impenetrable to reason have generally some crack through which suspicion filters and her visitors' insinuations did not glide off as easily as she had expected. Mrs. Peniston disliked scenes, and her determination to avoid them had always led her to hold herself aloof from the details of Lily's life. In her youth girls had not been supposed to require close supervision. They were generally assumed to be taken up with the legitimate business of courtship and marriage, and interference in such affairs on the part of their natural guardians was considered as unwarrantable as a spectator suddenly joining in a game. There had, of course, been fast girls, even in Mrs. Peniston's early experience, but their fastness, at worse, was understood to be a mere excess of animal spirits, against which there could be no grave or charge than that of being un-ladylike. The modern fastness appeared synonymous with immorality, and the mere idea of immorality was as offensive to Mrs. Peniston as a smell of cooking in the drawing-room. It was one of the conceptions her mind refused to admit. She had no immediate intention of repeating to Lily what she had heard, or even of trying to ascertain its truth by means of discreet interrogation. To do so might be to provoke a scene, and a scene in the shaken state of Mrs. Peniston's nerves with the effects of her dinner not worn off, and her mind still tremulous with new impressions was a risk she deemed it her duty to avoid. But there remained in her thoughts a subtle deposit of resentment against her niece, all the denser because it was not to be cleared by explanation or discussion. It was horrible of a young girl to let herself be talked about. However unfounded the charges against her she must be to blame for their having been made. Mrs. Peniston felt as if there had been a contagious illness in the house, and she was doomed to sit shivering among her contaminated furniture. End of Book 1, CHAPTER XI. Mrs. Bart had in fact been treading a devious way, and none of her critics could have been more alive to the fact than herself. She had a fatalistic sense of being drawn from one wrong turning to another, without ever perceiving the right road till it was too late to take it. Lily, who considered herself above narrow prejudices, had not imagined that the fact of letting Gus Trenner make a little money for her would ever disturb her self-complacency, and the fact in itself still seemed harmless enough. Only it was a fertile source of harmful complications. As she exhausted the amusement of spending the money these complications became more pressing, and Lily, whose mind could be severely logical in tracing the causes of her ill luck to others, justified herself by the thought that she owed all her troubles to the enmity of Bertha Dorsett. This enmity, however, had apparently expired in a renewal of friendliness between the two women. Lily's visit to the Dorsett had resulted, for both, in the discovery that they could be of use to each other, and the civilized instinct finds a subtler pleasure in making use of its antagonist than in confounding him. Mrs. Dorsett was, in fact, engaged in a new sentimental experiment of which Mrs. Fisher's late property, Ned Silverton, was the rosy victim, and at such moments, as Judy Trenner had once remarked, she felt a peculiar need of distracting her husband's attention. Dorsett was as difficult to amuse as a savage, but even his self- engrossment was not proof against Lily's arts, or rather these were especially adapted to soothe and uneasy egoism. Her experience with Percy Grice stood her in good stead in ministering to Dorsett's humors, and if the incentive to please was less urgent, the difficulties of her situation were teaching her to make much of minor opportunities. Intimacy with the Dorsett's was not likely to lessen such difficulties on the material side. Mrs. Dorsett had none of Judy Trenner's lavish impulses, and Dorsett's admiration was not likely to express itself in financial tips, even had Lily cared to renew her experiences in that line. What she required, for the moment, of the Dorsett's friendship was simply its social sanction. She knew that people were beginning to talk of her, but this fact did not alarm her as it had alarmed Mrs. Peniston. In her set such gossip was not unusual, and a handsome girl who flirted with a married man was merely assumed to be pressing to the limit of her opportunities. It was Trenner himself who frightened her. Their walk in the park had not been a success. Trenner had married young, and since his marriage his intercourse with women had not taken the form of the sentimental small talk which doubles upon itself like the paths in a maze. He was first puzzled, and then irritated to find himself always led back to the same starting point, and Lily felt that she was gradually losing control of the situation. Trenner was, in truth, in an unmanageable mood. In spite of his understanding with Rosedale he had been somewhat heavily touched by the fall in stocks. His household expenses weighed on him, and he seemed to be meeting on all sides a sullen opposition to his wishes, instead of the easy good luck he had hitherto encountered. This Trenner was still at Bellamont, keeping the townhouse open and descending on it now and then for a taste of the world, but preferring the recurrent excitement of weekend parties to the restrictions of adult season. Since the holidays she had not urged Lily to return to Bellamont, and the first time they met in town Lily fancied there was a shade of coldness in her manner. Was it merely the expression of her displeasure and as Bart's neglect, or had disquieting rumors reached her? The latter contingency seemed improbable, yet Lily was not without a sense of uneasiness. If her roaming sympathies had struck root anywhere it was in her friendship with Judy Trenner. She believed in the sincerity of her friend's affection, though it sometimes showed itself in self-interested ways, and she shrank with peculiar reluctance from any risk of estranging it. But aside from this she was keenly conscious of the way in which such an estrangement would react on herself. The fact that Gus Trenner was Judy's husband was at times Lily's strongest reason for disliking him, and for resenting the obligation under which he had placed her. To set her doubts at rest, Miss Bart, soon after the new year, proposed herself for a weekend at Bellamont. She had learned in advance that the presence of a large party would protect her from too great assiguity on Trenner's part, and his wife's telegraphic, come by all means, seemed to assure her of her usual welcome. Judy received her amicably. The cares of a large party always prevailed over personal feelings, and Lily saw no change in her hostess's manner. Nevertheless she was soon aware that the experiment of coming to Bellamont was destined not to be successful. The party was made up of what Mrs. Trenner called pokey people, her generic name for persons who did not play bridge, and it being her habit to group all such obstructionists in one class she usually invited them together, regardless of their other characteristics. The result was apt to be an irreducible combination of persons having no other quality in common than their abstinence from bridge and the antagonisms developed in a group, lacking the one taste which might have amalgamated them, were in this case aggravated by bad weather and by the ill-concealed boredom of their host and hostess. In such emergencies Judy would usually have turned to Lily to refuse the discordant elements, and Miss Bart, assuming that such a service was expected of her, threw herself into it with her accustomed zeal. But at the outset she pursued a subtle resistance to her efforts. If Mrs. Trenner's manner toward her was unchanged there was certainly a faint coldness in that of the other ladies. An occasional caustic allusion to your friends, the Wellington Brise, or to the little Jew who has bought the grainer-house. Someone told us you knew him, Miss Bart. Showed Lily that she was in disfavor with that portion of society, which, while contributing least to its amusement, had assumed the right to decide what forms that amusement shall take. The indication was a slight one, and a year ago Lily would have smiled at it, trusting to the charm of her personality to dispel any prejudice against her, but now she had grown more sensitive to criticism and less confident in her power of disarming it. She knew, moreover, that if the ladies at Belmont permitted themselves to criticize her friends openly it was a proof that they were not afraid of subjecting her to the same treatment behind her back. The nervous dread lest anything in Trenner's manner should seem to justify their disapproval made her seek every pretext for avoiding him, and she left Belmont conscious of having failed in every purpose which had taken her there. In town she returned to preoccupations which, for the moment, had the happy effect of banishing troublesome thoughts. The welly Brise, after much debate, and anxious counsel with their newly acquired friends, had decided on the bold move of giving a general entertainment. To attack society collectively, when one's means of approach are limited to a few acquaintances, is like advancing into a strange country with an insufficient number of scouts. But such rash tactics have sometimes led to brilliant victories, and the Brise had determined to put their fate to the touch. Mrs. Fisher, to whom they had entrusted the conduct of the affair, had decided that tableaux vivants, and expensive music were the two baits most likely to attract the desired prey. And after prolonged negotiations and the kind of wire-pulling in which she was known to excel, she had induced a dozen fashionable women to exhibit themselves in a series of pictures which, by a farther miracle of persuasion, the distinguished portrait painter Paul Morpeth had been prevailed upon to organize. Lily was in her element on such occasions. Under Morpeth's guidance, her vivid plastic scents hitherto nurtured on no higher food than dressmaking and upholstery found eager expression in the disposal of draperies, the study of attitudes, the shifting of lights and shadows. Her dramatic instinct was roused by the choice of subjects, and in the gorgeous reproductions of historic dresses stirred an imagination which only visual impressions could reach. But keenest of all was the exhilaration of displaying her own beauty under a new aspect, of showing that her loveliness was no mere fixed quality, but an element shaping all emotions to fresh forms of grace. Mrs. Fisher's measures had been well taken, and society, just in a dull moment, succumbed to the temptation of Mrs. Bry's hospitality. The protesting minority were forgotten, and the throng which abjured and came, and the audience was almost as brilliant as the show. Laurence Solden was among those who had yielded to the proffered inducements. He did not often act on the accepted social axiom that a man may go where he pleases. It was because he had long since learned that his pleasures were mainly to be found in a small group of the like-minded. But he enjoyed spectacular effects, and was not insensible to the part money plays in their production. All he asked was that the very rich should live up to their calling as stage managers and not spend their money in a dull way. This the Bry's could certainly not be charged with doing. Their recently built house, whatever it might lack as a frame for domesticity, was almost as well designed for the display of a festival as some lage as one of those airy pleasure halls which the Italian architects improvised to set off the hospitality of princes. The air of improvisation was, in fact, strikingly present, so recent, so rapidly evoked, was the whole mis-enseen that one had to touch the marble columns to learn they were not of cardboard, to seat oneself in one of the damask and gold arm-chairs, to be sure it was not painted against the wall. Seldon, who had put one of these seats to the test, found himself from an angle of the ballroom surveying the scene with frank enjoyment. The company, in obedience to the decorative instinct which calls for fine clothes and fine surroundings, had dressed rather with an eye to Mrs. Bry's background than to herself. The seated throng, filling the immense room without undue crowding, presented a surface of rich tissues and jewelled shoulders in harmony with the festooned and gilded walls and the flushed splendors of the Venetian ceiling. At the far end of the room a stage had been constructed behind a proscenium arch, curtained with folds of old damask. But in the pause before the parting of the folds there was little thought of what they might reveal for every woman who had accepted Mrs. Bry's invitation was engaged in trying to find out how many of her friends had done the same. Gertie Farage, seated next to Seldon, was lost in that indiscriminate and uncritical enjoyment so irritating to Miss Bart's finer perceptions. It may be that Seldon's nearness had something to do with the quality of his cousin's pleasure. But Miss Farage was so little accustomed to refer her enjoyment of such scenes to her own share in them that she was merely conscious of a deeper sense of contentment. Wasn't it dear of Lily to get me an invitation? Of course it would never have occurred to Carrie Fisher to put me on the list, and I should have been so sorry to miss seeing it all. And especially Lily herself. When she told me the ceiling was by Veronese, you would know, of course, Lawrence. I suppose it's very beautiful, but his women are so dreadfully fat. Goddesses? Well, I can only say that if they had been mortals and had to wear corsets it would have been better for them. I think our women are much handsomer. And this room is wonderfully becoming. Everyone looks so well. Did you ever see such jewels? Do look at Mrs. George Dorsett's pearls. I suppose the smallest of them would pay the rent of our girls' club for a year. Not that I ought to complain about the club. Everyone has been so wonderfully kind. Did I tell you that Lily had given us three hundred dollars? Wasn't it splendid of her? And then she collected a lot more money from her friends. Mrs. Brie gave us five hundred, and Mr. Rosedale a thousand. I wished Lily were not so nice to Mr. Rosedale, but she says it's no use being rude to him, because he doesn't see the difference. She really can't bear to hurt people's feelings. It makes me so angry when I hear her called cold and conceited. The girls at the club don't call her that. Do you know she has been there with me twice? Yes, Lily, and you should have seen their eyes. One of them said it was as good as a day in the country just to look at her. And she sat there, and laughed, and talked with them, not a bit as if she were being charitable, you know, but as if she liked it as much as they did. They've been asking ever since when she's coming back, and she's promised me, oh, Miss Ferris's confidences were cut short by the parting of the curtain on the first tableau, a group of nymphs dancing across flower-strewns swore in the rhythmic postures of Botticelli's spring. Tableau vivants depend for their effect not only on the happy disposal of lights and the delusive interposition of layers of gauze, but on a corresponding adjustment of the mental vision. To unfurnished minds they remain, in spite of every enhancement of art, only a superior kind of waxworks, but to the responsive fancy they may give magic glimpses of the boundary world between fact and imagination. Selden's mind was of this order. He could yield to vision-making influences as completely as a child, to the spell of a fairytale. Mrs. Brice Tableau wanted none of the qualities which go to the producing of such allusions, and under Morpeth's organizing hand the pictures succeeded each other with the rhythmic march of some splendid frieze in which the fugitive curves of living flesh and the wandering light of young eyes have been subdued to plastic harmony without losing the charm of life. The scenes were taken from old pictures, and the participators had been cleverly fitted with characters suited to their types. No one, for instance, could have made a more typical goya than Carrie Fisher, with her short dark-skinned face, the exaggerated glow of her eyes, the provocation of her frankly-painted smile. A brilliant Miss Meddon from Brooklyn showed to perfection the sumptuous curves of Titian's daughter, lifting her gold-solver laden with grapes above the harmonizing gold of rippled hair and rich brocade, and a young Mrs. Van Olstein, who showed the frailer Dutch type with high blue-vane forehead and pale eyes and lashes made a characteristic van dyke in black satin against a curtained archway. Then there were Kauffman nymphs, garlanding the altar of love, a Varoneese supper, all sheen-y textures, pearl-woven heads, and marble architecture, and a watou group of loot-playing comedians lounging by a fountain in a sunlit glade. Each evanescent picture touched the vision-building faculty in Seldon, leading him so far down the vistas of fancy that even Gertie Farrish's running commentary, oh, how lovely Ludo Melson looks, or that must be Kate Corby, to the right there in purple, did not break the spell of the illusion. Indeed, so skillfully had the personality of the actors been subdued to the scenes they figured in that even the least imaginative of the audience must have felt a thrill of contrast when the curtain suddenly parted on a picture that was simply and undisguisedly the portrait of Miss Burt. Here there could be no mistaking the predominance of personality, the unanimous, oh, of the spectators, was a tribute not to the brushwork of Reynolds, Mrs. Lloyd, but to the flesh and blood loveliness of Lily Burt. She had shown her artistic intelligence in selecting a type so like her own that she could embody the person represented without ceasing to be herself. It was as though she had stepped, not out of, but into Reynolds' office, banishing the phantom of his dead beauty by the beams of her living grace. The impulse to show herself in a splendid setting, she had thought for a moment of representing Tia Polo's Cleopatra, had yielded to the truer instinct of trusting to her unassisted beauty, and she had purposely chosen a picture without distracting accessories of dress or surroundings, her pale draperies and the background of foliage against which she stood served only to relieve the long, dried-like curves that swept upward from her poised foot to her lifted arm. The noble buoyancy of her attitude, its suggestion of soaring grace, revealed the touch of poetry in her beauty that Seldin always felt in her presence, yet lost the sense of when he was not with her. This expression was now so vivid that for the first time he seemed to see before him the real Lily Bart, divested of the trivialities of her little world, and catching for a moment a note of that eternal harmony of which her beauty was a part. Deuced bold thing to show herself in that get-up, but gad, there isn't a break in the lines anywhere, and I suppose she wanted us to know it. These words uttered by that experienced connoisseur Mr. Ned Van Alstein, whose scented white mustache had brushed Seldin's shoulder whenever the parting of the curtains presented any exceptional opportunity for the study of the female outline, affected their hearer in an unexpected way. It was not the first time that Seldin had heard Lily's beauty lightly remarked on, and hitherto the tone of the comments had imperceptibly colored his view of her. But now it woke only a motion of indignant contempt. This was the world she lived in. These were the standards by which she was fated to be measured. Does one go to Caliban for judgment on Miranda? In the long moment before the curtain fell, he had time to feel the whole tragedy of her life. It was as though her beauty, thus detached from all that cheapened and vulgarized it, had held out suppliant hands to him, from the world in which he and she had once met for a moment, and where he felt an overmastering longing to be with her again. He was roused by the pressure of ecstatic fingers. Wasn't she too beautiful, Lawrence? Don't you like her best in that simple dress? It makes her look like the real Lily, the Lily I know. He met Gertie Farrish's brimming gaze. The Lily we know, he corrected. And his cousin, beaming at the implied understanding, exclaimed joyfully, I'll tell her that. She always says, you dislike her. The performance over, Zeldin's first impulse, was to seek Miss Porte. During the interlude of music, which succeeded the tableau, the actors had seated themselves here and there in the audience, diversifying its conventional appearance by the varied picturesqueness of their dress. Lily, however, was not among them, and her absence served to protract the effect she had produced on Zeldin. It would have broken the spell to see her too soon in the surroundings from which accident had so happily detached her. They had not met since the day of the Van Osberg wedding, and on his side the avoidance had been intentional. Tonight, however, he knew that, sooner or later he should find himself at her side, and though he let the dispersing crowd drift, him wither it would, without making an immediate effort to reach her, his procrastination was not due to any lingering resistance, but to the desire to luxuriate it, a moment in the sense of complete surrender. Lily had not an instance doubt as to the meaning of the murmur greeting her appearance. No other tableau had been received with that precise note of approval. It had obviously been called forth by herself, and not by the picture she impersonated. She had feared at the last moment that she was risking too much in dispensing with the advantages of a more sumptuous setting, and the completeness of her triumph gave her an intoxicating sense of recovered power, not caring to diminish the impression she had produced. She held herself aloof from the audience till the movement of dispersal before supper, and thus had a second opportunity of showing herself to advantage, as the throng poured slowly into the empty drawing-room where she was standing. She was soon the center of a group which increased and renewed itself as the circulation became general, and the individual comments on her success were a delightful prolongation of the collective applause. At such moments she lost something of her natural fastidiousness, and cared less for the quality of the admiration received than for its quantity. Differences of personality were merged in a warm atmosphere of praise in which her beauty expanded like a flower in sunlight, and if Sulden had approached a moment or two sooner he would have seen her turning on Ned Van Alstein and George Dorset the look he had dreamed of capturing for himself. Fortune willed, however, that the hurried approach of Mrs. Fisher, whose aide-de-camp Van Alstein was acting, should break up the group before Sulden reached the threshold of the room. One or two of the men wandered off in search of their partners for supper, and the others, noticing Sulden's approach, gave way to him in accordance with the tacit freemasonry of the ballroom. Lily was therefore standing alone when he reached her, and finding the expected look in her eye he had the satisfaction of supposing he had kindled it. The look did indeed deepen, as it rested on him, for even in that moment of self-intoxication Lily felt the quicker beat of life that his nearness always produced. She read, too, in his answering gaze the delicious confirmation of her triumph, and for the moment it seemed to her that it was for him only she cared to be beautiful. Sulden had given her his arm without speaking. She took it in silence, and they moved away, not toward the supper-room, but against the tide, which was setting, thither. The faces about her flowed by like the streaming images of sleep. She hardly noticed where Sulden was leading her, till they passed through a glass doorway at the end of the long suite of rooms, and stood suddenly in the fragrant hush of a garden. Gravel grated beneath their feet, and about them was the transparent dimness of a midsummer night. Hanging lights made emerald caverns in the depths of foliage, and whitened the spray of a fountain falling among lilies. The magic place was deserted. There was no sound but the splash of water on the lily-pads, and a distant drift of music that might have been blown across a sleeping lake. Sulden and Lily stood still, accepting the unreality of the scene as a part of their own dreamlike sensations. It would not have surprised them to feel a summer breeze on their faces, or to see the lights among the boughs reduplicated in the arch of a starry sky. The strange solitude about them was no stranger than the sweetness of being alone in it together. At length Lily withdrew her hand, and moved away a step, so that her white-robed slimmness was outlined against the dusk of the branches. Lily then followed her, and still, without speaking, they seated themselves on a bench beside the fountain. Suddenly she raised her eyes with the beseeching earnestness of a child. You never speak to me. You think hard things of me, she murmured. I think of you at any rate, God knows, he said. Then why do we never see each other? Why can't we be friends? You promised once to help me," she continued in the same tone, as though the words were drawn from her unwillingly. The only way I can help you is by loving you," Selden said in a low voice. She made no reply, but her face turned to him with a soft motion of a flower. His own met it slowly, and their lips touched. She drew back and rose from her seat. Selden rose too, and they stood facing each other. Suddenly she caught his hand and pressed it a moment against her cheek. Ah, love me, love me, but don't tell me so," she sighed with her eyes in his, and before he could speak, she had turned and slipped through the arch of boughs, disappearing in the brightness of the room beyond. Selden stood where she had left him. He knew too well the transiency of exquisite moments to attempt to follow her. But presently he re-entered the house and made his way through the deserted rooms to the door. A few sumptuously cloaked ladies were already gathered in the marble vestibule, and in the coat room he found Vent Allstein and Gus Trannor. The former, at Selden's approach, paused in the careful selection of a cigar from one of the silver boxes invitingly set out near the door. Hello, Selden, going to? You're an Epicurean like myself. I see. You don't want to see all those goddesses gobbling caravan. Gad, what a show of good-looking women. But not one of them could touch that little cousin of mine. Talk of jewels? What's a woman want with jewels when she's got herself to show? The trouble is that all these foul-bows they wear cover up their figures when they've got them. I never knew till to-night what an outline Lily has. It's not her fault if everybody don't know it now, Groud Trannor, flushed with the struggle of getting into his fur-lined coat. Damn bad taste, I call it. No, no cigar for me. You can't tell what you're smoking in one of these new houses, likely as not the chef, buys the cigars. Stay for supper, not if I know it. When people crowd their rooms so that you can't get near anyone you want to speak to, I'd as soon sup in the elevated at the rush hour. My wife was dead right to stay away. She says life's too short to spend it and breaking in new people. End of Book 1, Chapter 12. Book 1, Chapter 13 of The House of Merth by Edith Wharton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Lily woke from happy dreams to find two notes at her bedside. One was from Mrs. Trannor, who announced that she was coming to town that afternoon for a flying visit, and hoped Miss Bart would be able to dine with her. The other was from Seldon. He wrote briefly that an important case called him to Albany, whence he would be unable to return till the evening, and asked Lily to let him know at what hour on the following day she would see him. Lily, leaning back among her pillows, gazed musingly at his letter. The scene in the Brise, Conservatory, had been like a part of her dreams. She had not expected to wake to such evidence of its reality. Her first movement was one of annoyance. This unforeseen act of Seldon's added another complication to life. It was so unlike him to yield to such an irrational impulse. Did he really mean to ask her to marry him? She had once shown him the impossibility of such a hope, and his subsequent behavior seemed to prove that he had accepted this situation with a reasonableness somewhat mortifying to her vanity. It was all the more agreeable to find that this reasonableness was maintained only at the cost of not seeing her. But though nothing in life was as sweet as the sense of her power over him, she saw the danger of allowing the episode of the previous night to have a sequel. Since she could not marry him, it would be kinder to him, as well as easier for herself, to write a line amicably evading his request to see her. He was not the man to mistake such a hint, and when next they met it would be on their usual friendly footing. Lily sprang out of bed and went straight to her desk. She wanted to write it once, while she could trust the strength of her resolve. She was still languid from her brief sleep and the exhilaration of the evening, and the sight of Seldon's writing brought back the culminating moment of her triumph, the moment when she had read in his eyes that no philosophy was proof against her power. It would be pleasant to have that sensation again. No one else could give it to her in its fullness. And she could not bear to mar her mood of luxurious retrospection by an act of definite refusal. She took up her pen and wrote hastily, to-morrow at four, murmuring to herself, and as she slipped the sheet into its envelope. I can easily put him off when to-morrow comes. Judy Trainor's summons was very welcome to Lily. It was the first time she had received a direct communication from Belamond since the close of her last visit there, and she was still visited by the dread of having incurred Judy's displeasure. But this characteristic command seemed to re-establish their former relations, and Lily smiled at the thought that her friend had probably summoned her in order to hear about the bride's entertainment. Mrs. Trainor had absented herself from the feast, perhaps for the reason so frankly enunciated by her husband, perhaps because, as Mrs. Fisher somewhat differently put it, she couldn't bear new people when she hadn't discovered them herself. At any rate, though she remained haughtily at Belamond, Lily suspected in her a devouring eagerness to hear of what she had missed, and to learn exactly in what measure Mrs. Wellington Bry has surpassed all previous competitors for social recognition. Lily was quite ready to gratify this curiosity, but it happened that she was dining out. She determined, however, to see Mrs. Trainor for a few moments, and ringing for her maid, she dispatched a telegram to say that she would be with her friend that evening at ten. She was dining with Mrs. Fisher, who had gathered at an informal feast, a few of the performance of the previous evening. There was to be plantation music in the studio after dinner, for Mrs. Fisher, despairing of the Republic, had taken up modeling and annexed to her small crowded house a spacious apartment, which, whatever its uses in her hours of plastic inspiration, served at other times for the exercise of an indefatigable hospitality. Lily was reluctant to leave, for the dinner was amusing, and she would have liked to lounge over a cigarette and hear a few songs, but she could not break her engagement with Judy, and shortly after ten she asked her hostess to ring for a handsome, and drove up Fifth Avenue to the Trainor's. She waited long enough on the doorstep to wonder that Judy's presence in town was not signalized by a greater promptness in admitting her, and her surprise was increased when, instead of the expected footman, pushing his shoulders into a tardy coat, a shabby, care-taking person in Calico, let her into the shrouded hall. Trainor, however, appeared at once on the threshold of the drawing-room, welcoming her with unusual volubility, while he relieved her of her cloak and drew her into the room. Come along to the den. It's the only comfortable place in the house. Doesn't this room look as if it was waiting for the body to be brought down? Can't see why Judy keeps this house wrapped up in this awful, slippery white stuff. It's enough to give a fellow pneumonia to walk through these rooms on a cold day. You look a little pinched yourself, by the way. It's rather a sharp night out. I noticed it walking up from the club. Come along, and I'll give you a nip a brandy, and you can toast yourself over the fire and try some of my new Egyptians. That little Turkish chap at the Embassy put me on to a brand that I want you to try, and if you like him, I'll get out a lot for you. They don't have him here yet, but I'll cable. He led her through the house to the large room at the back, where Mrs. Trainor usually sat, and where, even in her absence, there was an error of occupancy. Here, as usual, were flowers, newspapers, a littered writing table, and a general aspect of lamplit familiarity, so that it was a surprise not to see Judy's energetic figure start up from the armchair near the fire. It was apparently Trainor himself who had been occupying the seat in question, for it was overhung by a cloud of cigar smoke, and near it stood one of those intricate folding tables which British ingenuity had devised to facilitate the circulation of tobacco and spirits. The site of such appliances in a drawing-room was not unusual, and Lily's set, where smoking and drinking were unrestricted by considerations of time and place, and her first movement was to help herself to one of the cigarettes recommended by Trainor, while she checked his locosity by asking, with a surprised glance, Where's Judy? Trainor, a little heated by his unusual flow of words, and perhaps by prolonged propinquity with the decanters, was bending over the latter to decipher their silver labels. You're not, Lily. Just a drop of cognac, and a little fuzzy water. You do look pinched, you know. I swear the end of your nose is red. I'll take another glass to keep you company. Judy? Why, you see, Judy's got a devil of a headache. Quite knocked out with it, poor thing. She asked me to explain. Make it all right, you know. Do come up to the fire, though. You look dead beat, really. Now, do let me make you comfortable. There's a good girl. He had taken her hand, half banteringly, and was drawing her toward a low seat by the hearth, but she stopped and freed herself quietly. Do you mean to say that Judy's not well enough to see me? Doesn't she want me to go upstairs? Trainor drained the glass he had filmed for himself, and paused to set it down before he answered. Why, no. The fact is she's not up to seeing anybody. It came on suddenly, you know, and she asked me to tell you how awfully sorry she was. If she'd known where you were dining, she'd have sent you word. She did know where I was dining. I mentioned it in my telegram. But it doesn't matter. Of course, I suppose if she's so poorly, she won't go back to Pellamont in the morning, and I can come and see her then. Yes, exactly. That's capital. I'll tell her you'll pop in to tomorrow morning. And now do sit down for a minute. There's a deer, and let's have a nice quiet jaw together. You won't take a drop, just for sociability. Tell me what you think of that cigarette. Why, don't you like it? What are you chucking it away for? I am chucking it away, because I must go. If you'll have the goodness to call a cab for me, let me return with a smile. She did not like Trenner's unusual excitability with its two evident explanation, and the thought of being alone with him, with her friend out of reach upstairs at the other end of the great empty house, did not conduce to a desire to prolong their tête-à-tête. But Trenner, with a promptness which did not escape her, had moved between herself and the door. Why must you go, I should like to know. If Judy'd been here, you'd have set gossiping till all hours, and you can't even give me five minutes. It's always the same story. Last night I couldn't get near you. I went to that damn vulgar party just to see you, and there was everybody talking about you, and asking me if I'd ever seen anything so stunning. And when I tried to come up and say a word, you never took any notice, but just went on laughing and joking with a lot of asses who only wanted to be able to swagger about afterward and look knowing when you were mentioned. He paused, fleshed by his diatribe, and fixing on her a look in which resentment was the ingredient she at least disliked. But she had regained her presence of mind, and stood compositely in the middle of the room, while her slight smile seemed to put an ever-increasing distance between herself and Trenor. Across it, she said, Don't be absurd, Gus. It's past eleven, and I really must ask you to ring for a cab. He remained immovable, with a lowering forehead she had grown to detest. And supposing I won't ring for one, what'll you do then? I shall go upstairs to Judy if you force me to disturb her. Trenor drew a step nearer, and laid his hand on her arm. Look here, Lily. Won't you give me five minutes of your own accord? Not to-night, Gus. You—very good, then. I'll take him, and as many more as I want. He had squared himself on the threshold, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, he nodded toward the chair on a hearth. Go and sit down there, please. I've got a word to say to you. Lily's quick temper was getting the better of her fears. She drew herself up, and moved toward the door. If you have anything to say to me, you must say it another time. I shall go up to Judy unless you call a cab for me at once. He burst into a laugh. Ha! Go upstairs and welcome, my dear, but you won't find Judy. She ain't there. Lily cast a startled look upon him. Do you mean that Judy is not in the house, not in town? She exclaimed. That's just what I do mean, retorn Trenor, his bluster sinking to sullenness under her luck. Nonsense, I don't believe you. I am going upstairs, she said impatiently. He drew unexpectedly aside, letting her reach the threshold unimpeded. Go up and welcome, but my wife is at Belamond. But Lily had a flash of reassurance. If she hadn't come, she would have sent me word. She did, she telephoned me this afternoon to let you know. I received no message. I didn't send any. The two measured each other for a moment, but Lily still saw her opponent through a blur of scorn that made all other considerations indistinct. I can't imagine your object in playing such a stupid trick on me, but if you have fully gratified your peculiar sense of humor, I must again ask you to send for a cab. It was the wrong note, and she knew it as she spoke. To be stung by irony is not necessary to understand it, and the angry streaks on Trenor's face might have been raised by an actual lash. Look here, Lily, don't take that high and mighty tone with me. He had again moved toward the door, and in her instinctive shrinking from him she let him regain command of the threshold. I did play a trick on you. I own up to it, but if you think I'm ashamed, you're mistaken. Lord knows I've been patient enough. I've hung round and looked like an ass, and all the while you were letting a lot of other fellows make up to you. Letting them make fun of me, I daresay. I'm not sharp, and can't dress my friends up to look funny as you do, but I can tell when it's being done to me. I can tell fast enough when I'm made a fool of. Ah! I shouldn't have thought that, flashed from Lily, but her laugh dropped to silence under his look. No, you wouldn't have thought of it, but you'll know better now. That's what you're here for tonight. I've been waiting for a quiet time to talk things over, and now I've got it. I mean to make you hear me out. This first rush of inarticulate resentment had been followed by a steadiness and concentration of tone more disconcerting to Lily than the excitement preceding it. For a moment her presence of mind foresoaked her. She had more than once been in situations where a quicksword play of wit had been needful to cover her retreat, but her frightened heart-throbs told her that here such skill would not avail. To gain time she repeated, I don't understand what you want. Trenor had pushed a chair between himself and the door. He threw himself in it and leaned back, looking up at her. I'll tell you what I want. I want to know just where you and I stand. Hang it! The man who pays for the dinner is generally allowed to have a seat at table. She flamed with anger and abasement, and the sickening need of having to conciliate where she longed to humble. I don't know what you mean, but you must seek us, that I can't stay here talking to you at this hour. Gadd, you go to men's house as fast enough and in broad daylight strikes me you're not always so deuce-careful of appearances. The brutality of the thrust gave her the sense of dizziness that follows on a physical blow. Rosedale had spoken then. This was the way men talked of her. She felt suddenly weak and defenceless. There was a throb of self-pity in her throat, but all the while another self was sharpening her to vigilance, whispering the terrified warning that every word and gesture must be measured. If you have brought me here to say insulting things, she began. Trenor laughed. Don't talk stage rot. I don't want to insult you, but a man's got his feelings, and you've played with mine too long. I didn't begin this business, kept out of the way, and left the track clear for the other chaps, till you rummaged me out, and set to work to make an ass on me. And an easy job you had of it, too. That's the trouble. It was too easy for you. You got reckless. Thought you could turn me inside out and chuck me in the gutter, like an empty purse. But by Gadd, that ain't plain fair. It's dodging the rules of the game. Of course I know now what you wanted. It wasn't my beautiful eyes you were after, but I tell you what, Miss Lily, you've got to pay up, for making me think so. He rose, squaring his shoulders aggressively, and stepped toward her with a reddening brow, but she held her footing, though every nerve tore at her to retreat as he advanced. Pay up, she faltered. Do you mean that I owe you money? He laughed again. Oh, I'm not asking for payment in kind, but there's such a thing as fair play, an interest on one's money, and hang me if I've had as much as a look from you. Your money? What have I got to do with your money? You advise me how to invest mine. You must have seen I knew nothing of business. You told me it was all right. It was all right. It is Lily. You're welcome to all of it. And ten times more, I'm only asking for a word of thanks from you. He was closer still, with a hand that grew formidable, and the frightened self in her was dragging the other down. I have thanked you. I've shown I was grateful. What more have you done than any friend might do, or anyone except from a friend? Trenor caught her up with a sneer. I don't doubt you've accepted as much before, and chucked the other chaps as you'd like to chuck me. I don't care how you settled your score with them. If you fooled them, I'm that much to the good. Don't stare at me like that. I know I'm not talking the way a man is supposed to talk to a girl, but hang it. If you don't like it, you can stop me quick enough. You know I'm mad about you. Damn the money. There's plenty more of it. If that bothers you, I was a brute. Lily! Lily! Just look at me! Over and over her the sea of humiliation broke. Wave crushing on waves so close that the moral sham was one with the physical dread. It seemed to her that self-esteem would have made her invulnerable, that it was her own dishonor which put a fearful solitude about her. His touch was a shock to her drowning consciousness. She drew back from him with a desperate assumption of scorn. I've told you I don't understand, but if I owe you money you shall be paid. Trenor's face darkened to rage. Her recoil of aberrance had called out the primitive man. Ah! You'll borrow from Seldon or Rosdell and take your chances of fooling them as you fooled me. Unless, unless you settled your other scores already, and I'm the only one left out in the cold. She stood silent, frozen to her place. The words, the words were worse than the touch. Her heart was beating all over her body, and her throat, her limbs, her helpless, useless hands. Her eyes traveled despairingly about the room. They lit on the cell, and she remembered that help was in call. Yes, but scandal with it. A hideous mustering of tongues. No, she must fight her way out alone. It was enough that the servants knew her to be in the house with Trenor. There must be nothing to excite conjecture in her way of leaving it. She raised her head, and achieved a last clear look at him. I am here alone with you, she said. What more have you to say? In her surprise, Trenor answered the look with a speechless stare. With his last gust of words the flame had died out, leaving him chill and humbled. It was as though a cold air had dispersed the fumes of his libations, and the situation loomed before him, black and naked, as the ruins of a fire. Old habits, old restraints, the hand of inherited order, plucked back the bewildered mind which passion had jolted from its ruts. Trenor's eye had the haggard look of the sleepwalker, waked on a deathly ledge. Go home, go away from here, he stammered, and, turning his back on her, walked toward the hearth. The sharp release of her fears restored Lily to immediate lucidity. The collapse of Trenor's will left her in control, and she heard herself, and a voice that was her own, yet outside herself, bidding him ring for the servant, bidding him give the order for a handsome, directing him to put her in it when it came. Once the strength came to her she knew not, but an insistent voice warned her that she must leave the house openly, and nerved her, in the hall, before the hovering caretaker, to exchange light words with Trenor, and charge him with the usual messages for Judy, while all the while she shook with inward loathing. On the doorstep, with the street before her, she felt a mad throb of liberation, intoxicating as the prisoner's first draught of free air, but the clearness of brain continued, and she noted the mute aspect of Fifth Avenue, guessed at the lateness of the hour, and even observed a man's figure. Was there something half familiar, and its outline? Which, as she entered the handsome, turned from the opposite corner, and vanished in the obscurity of the side street. But with the turn of the wheel's reaction came, and shattering darkness closed on her. I can't think! I can't think! she moaned, and leaned her head against the rattling side of the cab. She seemed a stranger to herself, or rather there were two selves in her, the one she had always known, and a new abhorrent being, to which it found itself chained. She had once picked up, in a house where she was staying, a translation of the Humanities, and her imagination had been seized by the high terror of the scene, where Orestes, in the cave of the Oracle, finds his implacable huntresses asleep, and snatches an hour's repose. Yes, the Furies might sometimes sleep, but they were there, always there, in the dark corners, and now they were awake, and the iron clang of their wings was in her brain. She opened her eyes, and saw the street's passing, the familiar alien streets. All she looked on was the same, and yet changed. There was a great gulf fixed between today and yesterday. Everything in the past seemed simple, natural, full of daylight, and she was alone in a place of darkness and pollution. Alone. It was the loneliness that frightened her. Her eyes fell on an illuminated clock at a street corner, and she saw that the hands marked the half-hour after eleven. Only half past eleven. There were hours and hours left of the night, and she must spend them alone, shattering, sleepless on her bed. Her soft nature recoiled from the sordial, which had none of the stimulus of conflict to goad her through it. Oh, the slow, cold drip of the minutes on her head. She had a vision of herself lying on the black walnut bed, and the darkness would frighten her, and if she left the light burning, the dreary details of the room would brand themselves forever on her brain. She had always hated her room at Mrs. Peniston's. Its ugliness, its impersonality, the fact that nothing in it was really hers. To a torn heart, uncomforted by human nearness, a room may open almost human arms, and the being to whom no four walls mean more than any others is, at such hours, expatriate everywhere. Lily had no heart to lean on. Her relation with her aunt was as superficial as that of chance lodgers who pass on the stairs. But even had the tube in closer contact, it was impossible to think of Mrs. Peniston's mind as offering shelter or comprehension to such misery as Lily's. As the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch. What Lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath. She started up and looked forth on the passing streets. Gertie! They were nearing Gertie's corner. If only she could reach there before this laboring anguish burst from her breast to her lips. If only she could feel the hold of Gertie's arms while she shook in the aggue fit of fear that was coming upon her. She pushed up the door in the roof and called the address to the driver. It was not so late. Gertie might still be waking, and even if she were not, the sound of the bell would penetrate every recess of her tiny apartment and rouse her to answer her friend's call.