 Book II. CHAPTER II of THE HOUSE OF MERTH by Edith Wharton. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Miss Bart, emerging late the next morning from her cabin, found herself alone on the deck of the Sabrina. The cushioned chairs, disposed expectantly under the wide awning, showed no signs of recent occupancy, and she presently learned from a steward that Mrs. Dorset had not yet appeared and that the gentlemen, separately, had gone ashore as soon as they had breakfasted. Supplied with these facts, Lily leaned awhile over the side, giving herself up to a leisurely enjoyment of the spectacle before her. Unclouded sunlight enveloped sea and shore in a bath of purest radiancy. The purpling waters drew a sharp white line of foam at the base of the shore. Against its irregular immanences, hotels and villas flashed from the grayish verdure of olive and eucalyptus, and the background of bare and finely penciled mountains quivered in a pale intensity of light. How beautiful it was, and how she'd loved beauty! She had always felt that her sensibility in this direction made up for certain obtusenesses of feeling of which she was less proud, and during the last three months she had indulged it passionately. The Dorset's invitation to go abroad with them had come as an almost miraculous release from crushing difficulties, and her faculty for renewing herself in new scenes and casting off problems of conduct as easily as the surroundings in which they had arisen made the mere change from one place to another seem not merely a postponement but a solution of her troubles. Moral complications existed for her only in the environment that had produced them. She did not mean to slight or ignore them, but they lost their reality when they changed their background. She could not have remained in New York without repaying the money she owed to Treanor. To acquit herself of that odious debt she might even have faced a marriage with Rosedale, but the accident of placing the Atlantic between herself and her obligations made them dwindle out of sight as if they had been milestones and she had travelled past them. For two months on the Sabrina had been especially calculated to aid this illusion of distance. She had been plunged into new scenes, and had found in them a renewal of old hopes and ambitions. The cruise itself charmed her as a romantic adventure. She was vaguely touched by the names and scenes amid which she moved, and had listened Ned Silverton reading Theocritus by moonlight as the yacht rounded the Sicilian promontories with a thrill of the nerves that confirmed her belief in her intellectual superiority. But the weeks at Cannes and Nice had really given her more pleasure. The gratification of being welcomed in high company and of making her own ascendancy felt there, so that she found herself figuring once more as the beautiful Miss Bart in the interesting journal devoted to recording the least movements of her cosmopolitan companions. All these experiences tended to throw into the extreme background of memory the prosaic and sordid difficulties from which she had escaped. Although she was faintly aware of fresh difficulties ahead, she was sure of her ability to meet them. It was characteristic of her to feel that the only problems she could not solve were those with which she was familiar. Meanwhile, she could honestly be proud of the skill with which she had adapted herself to somewhat delicate conditions. She had reason to think that she had made herself equally necessary to her host and hostess, and if only she had seen any perfectly irreproachable means of drawing a financial profit from the situation there would have been no cloud on her horizon. The truth was that her funds, as usual, were inconveniently low, and to neither dorset nor his wife could this vulgar embarrassment be safely hinted. Still, the need was not a pressing one. She could worry along as she had so often done before with the hopes of some happy change of fortune to sustain her, and meanwhile life was gay and beautiful and easy, and she was conscious of figuring not unworthily in such a setting. She was engaged to breakfast that morning with the Duchess of Belcher, and at twelve o'clock she asked to be set ashore in the gig. For this she had sent her maid to inquire if she might see Mrs. Dorset, but the reply came back that the latter was tired and trying to sleep. Lily thought she understood the reason of the rebuff. Her hostess had not been included in the Duchess's invitation, though she herself had made the most loyal efforts in that direction. And her grace was impervious to hence, and invited or omitted as she chose. It was not Lily's fault if Mrs. Dorset's complicated attitudes did not fall in with the Duchess's easy gait. The Duchess, who seldom explained herself, had not formulated her objection beyond saying, She's rather a bore, you know. The only one of your friends I like is that little Mr. Brie, he's funny. But Lily knew enough not to press the point, and was not altogether sorry to be thus distinguished at her friend's expense. Bertha certainly had grown tiresome since she had taken to poetry and Ned Silverton. On the whole it was a relief to break away now and then from the Sabrina and the Duchess's little breakfast, organized by Lord Hubert, with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to Lily for not including her travelling companions. Dorset, of late, had grown more than usually morose and incalculable, and Ned Silverton went about with an error that seemed to challenge the universe. The freedom and lightness of the Ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and Lily was tempted, after luncheon, to adjourn in the wake of her companions to the hectic atmosphere of the casino. She did not mean to play. Her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure, but it amused her to sit on a divan under the doubtful protection of the Duchess's back, while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighboring table. The rooms were packed with the gazing throng which, in the afternoon hours, trickles heavily between the tables, like the Sunday crowd in a lion-house. In the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly distinguishable, but Lily presently saw Mrs. Brie cleaving her determined way through the doors, and in the broad wake she left the light figure of Mrs. Fisher bobbing after her like a rowboat at the stern of a tug. Mrs. Brie pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain point in the rooms, but Mrs. Fisher, as she passed Lily, broke from her towing-line and let herself float to the girl's side. Loose her, she echoed the latter's query, with an indifferent glance at Mrs. Brie's retreating back. I daresay it doesn't matter. I have lost her already. And as Lily exclaimed, she added, we had an awful row this morning. You know, of course, that the Duchess chucked her at dinner last night, and she thinks it was my fault, my want of management. The worst of it is, the message, just a mere word by telephone, came so late that the dinner had to be paid for, and Bicassin had run it up. It had been so drummed into him that the Duchess was coming. Mrs. Fisher indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. Ah, paying for what she doesn't get rankled so dreadfully with Louisa. I can't make her see that it's one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven't paid for, and as I was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to Adam's poor dear. Lily murmured her commiseration. Impulses of sympathy came naturally to her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to Mrs. Fisher. If there's anything I can do, if it's only a question of meeting the Duchess, I heard her say she thought Mr. Brie amusing. But Mrs. Fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. My dear, I have my pride, the pride of my trade. I couldn't manage the Duchess, and I can't palm off your arts on Louisa Brie as mine. I've taken the final step. I go to Paris tonight with the Sam Gormers, there still in the elementary stage, and Italian Prince is a great deal more than a Prince to them. And they're always on the brink of taking a courier for one. To save them from that is my present mission. She laughed again at the picture. But before I go, I want to make my last will and testament. I want to leave you, the Brie's. Me! Miss Bart joined in her amusement. It's charming of you to remember me, dear, but really. You're already so well provided for. Mrs. Fisher flashed a sharp glance at her. Are you, though, Lily, to the point of rejecting my offer? Miss Bart colored slowly. What I really meant was that the Brie's wouldn't in the least care to be so disposed of. Mrs. Fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye. What you really meant was that you've snubbed the Brie's horribly, and you know that they know. Carrie! Oh, uncertain sides, Louisa bristles with perceptions. If you'd even managed to have them asked once on the Sabrina, especially when royalties are coming. But it's not too late, she ended earnestly. It's not too late for either of you. Lily smiled. Stay over, and I'll get the Duchess to dine with them. I shunt stay over. The Gormers have paid for my salon-lit, said Mrs. Fisher, with simplicity. But get the Duchess to dine with them all the same. Lily's smile again flowed into a slight laugh. Her friend's importunity was beginning to strike her as irrelevant. I'm sorry I have been negligent about the Brie's, she began. Oh, as to the Brie's, it's you I'm thinking of, said Mrs. Fisher, abruptly. She paused, and then bending forward with a lowered voice. You know we all went on to niece last night when the Duchess chucked us. It was Louisa's idea. I told her what I thought of it. Yes, I caught sight of you on the way back, at the station. Well, the man who was in the carriage with you and George Dorsett, that horrid little dabbam, who does society notes from the Riviera, had been dining with us at niece, and he's telling everybody that you and Dorsett came back alone after midnight. Alone? What he was with us! Lily laughed, but her laugh faded into gravity under the prolonged implication of Mrs. Fisher's look. We did come back alone, if that's so very dreadful, but whose fault was it? The Duchess was spending the night at Simye's with the Crown Princess. Bertha got bored with the show, and went off early, promising to meet us at the station. We turned up on time, but she didn't. She didn't turn up at all. Miss Bart made this announcement in the tone of one who presents, with careless assurance, a complete vindication, but Mrs. Fisher received it in a manner almost inconsequent. She seemed to have lost sight of her friend's part in the incident. Her inward vision had taken another slant. Bertha never turned up at all. Then how on earth did she get back? Oh, by the next train, I suppose, there were two extra ones for the fate. At any rate, I know she's safe on the yacht, though I haven't yet seen her. But you see, it was not my fault. Lily summed up. Not her fault that Bertha didn't turn up. My poor child, if only you don't have to pay for it. Mrs. Fisher rose. She had seen Mrs. Brie surging back in her direction. There's Louisa, and I must be off. Oh, we're on the best of terms. Externally, we're lunching together. But at heart it's me she's lunching on. She explained, and with a last hand-clasp and a last look, she added, Remember, I leave her to you. She's hovering now, ready to take you in. Lily carried the impression of Mrs. Fisher's leave-taking away with her from the casino doors. She had accomplished, before leaving, the first step before her reinstatement in Mrs. Brie's good graces. An affable advance, a vague murmur that they must see more of each other, an elusive glance to a near future that was felt to include the Duchess as well as the Sabrina, how easily it was all done, if one possessed the knack of doing it. She wondered at herself, as she had so often wondered, that possessing the knack she did not more consistently exercise it, but sometimes she was forgetful, and sometimes could it be that she was proud? Today at any rate she had been vaguely conscious of a reason for sinking her pride, had in fact even sunk it to the point of suggesting to Lord Hubert Dacey, whom she ran across on the casino's steps, that he might really get the Duchess to dine with the Brie's, if she undertook to have them asked on the Sabrina. Lord Hubert had promised his help, with the readiness on which she could always count. It was his only way of ever reminding her that he had once been ready to do so much more for her. Her path, in short, seemed to smooth itself before her as she advanced, yet the faint stir of uneasiness persisted. Had it been produced, she wondered, by her chance meeting with Seldon. She thought not. Time and change seemed so completely to have relegated him to his proper distance. The sudden and exquisite reaction from her anxieties had had the effect of throwing the recent past so far back that even Seldon, as part of it, retained a certain error of unreality, and he had made it so clear that they were not to meet again, that he had merely dropped down to Mnise for a day or two, and had almost his foot on the next steamer. No, that part of the past had merely surged up for a moment on the fleeing surface of events, and now that it was submerged again the uncertainty the apprehension persisted. They grew to sudden acuteness as she caught sight of George Dorsett descending the steps of the hotel de Paris and making for her across the square. She had meant to drive down to the quay and regain the yacht, but she now had the immediate impression that something more was to happen first. Which way are you going? Shall we walk a bit? He began putting the second question before the first was answered, and not waiting for a reply to either before he directed her silently toward the comparative seclusion of the lower gardens. She detected in him at once all the signs of extreme nervous tension. The skin was puffed out under his sunken eyes, and its soloness had paled to a leaden white against which his irregular eyebrows and long reddish moustache were relieved with a saturnine effect. His appearance, in short, presented an odd mixture of the bedraggled and the ferocious. He walked beside her in silence with quick precipitate steps till they reached the embowered slopes to the east of the casino, then pulling up abruptly, he said, Have you seen Bertha? No. When I left the yacht, she was not yet up. He received this with a laugh, like the whirring sound in a disabled clock. Not yet up! Had she gone to bed? Do you know at what time she came on board? This morning, at seven, he exclaimed. At seven, Lily started, what happened? An accident to the train. He laughed again. Ha! They missed the train. All the trains. They had to drive back. Well, she hesitated, failing at once how little even this necessity accounted for the fatal lapse of hours. Well, they couldn't get a carriage at once. At that time of night, you know. The explanatory note made it almost seem as though he were putting the case for his wife. And when they finally did, it was only a one-horse cab, and the horse was lame. How tiresome! I see! she affirmed, with the more earnestness, because she was so nervously conscious that she did not. And after a pause, she added, I'm so sorry, but ought we to have waited? Did for the one-horse cab it would scarcely have carried the four of us, do you think? She took this in what seemed the only possible way, with a laugh intended to sink the question itself in his humorous treatment of it. Oh! well, it would have been difficult. We should have had to walk by turns, but it would have been jolly to see the sunrise. Yes, the sunrise was jolly, he agreed. Was it? You saw it then? I saw it, yes, from the duck. I waited up for them. Naturally, I suppose you were worried. Why didn't you call on me to share your vigil? He stood still, dragging at his moustache with a lean, weak hand. I don't think you would have cared for its denomé, he said, with sudden grimness. Again she was disconcerted by the abrupt change in his tone, and as in one flash she saw the peril of the moment and the need of keeping her sense of it out of her eyes. Denomé? Isn't that too big a word for such a small incident? The worst of it, after all, is the fatigue which Bertha has probably slept off by this time. She clung to the note bravely, though its futility was now plain to her in the glare of his miserable eyes. Don't, don't! he broke out with a hurt cry of a child, and while she tried to merge her sympathy and her resolve to ignore any cause for it in one ambiguous murmur of deprecation he dropped down on the bench near which they had paused, and poured out the wretchedness of his soul. It was a dreadful hour, an hour from which she had merged, shrinking, and seared, as though her lids had been scorched by its actual glare. It was not that she had never had premonitory glimpses of such an outbreak, but rather because here and there throughout the three months the surface of life had shown such ominous crux and vapours that her fears had always been on the alert for an upheaval. There had been moments when the situation had presented itself under a homelier yet more vivid image, that of a shaky vehicle dashed by unbroken steeds over a bumping road while she cowered within, aware that the harness wanted mending and wondering what would give way first. Well, everything had given way now, and the wonder was that the crazy outfit had held together so long. Her sense of being involved in the crash, instead of merely witnessing it from the road, was intensified by the way in which Dorset, through his furies of denunciation and wild reactions of self-contempt, made her feel the need he had of her, the place she had taken in his life, but for her what ear would have been open to his cries, and what hand but hers could drag him up again to a footing of sanity and self-respect. All through the stress of the struggle with him she had been conscious of something faintly maternal in her efforts to guide and uplift him, but for the present if he clung to her it was not in the order to be dragged up, but to feel someone floundering in the depths with him. He wanted her to suffer with him, not to help him to suffer less. Happily for both there was little physical strength to sustain his frenzy. It left him, collapsed and breathing heavily, to an apathy so deep and prolonged that Lily almost feared the passers-by would think it the result of a seizure and stop to offer their aid. But Monte Carlo is, of all places, the one where the human bond is least close, and odd sights are the least arresting. If a glance or two lingered on the couple, no interest of sympathy disturbed them, and it was Lily herself who broke the silence by rising from her seat. With the clearing of her vision the sweep of peril had extended, and she saw that the post of danger was no longer at Dorset's side. "'If you won't go back, I must. Don't make me leave you,' she urged. But he remained mutely resistant, and she added, "'What are you going to do? You really can't sit here all night.' "'I can go to a hotel. I can telegraph my lawyers.' He sat up, roused by a new thought. "'By Jove, Seldon's at Nice. I'll send for Seldon.' "'Lily, at this, receded herself with a cry of alarm. "'No, no, no!' she protested. He swung round on her distrustfully. "'Why not, Seldon? He's a lawyer, isn't he? One will do as well as another in a case like this.' "'As badly as another, you mean. I thought you relied on me to help you.' "'You do, by being so sweet and patient with me. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have ended the thing long ago. But now it's got to end.' He rose suddenly, straightening himself with an effort. You can't want to see me ridiculous.' She looked at him kindly. "'That's just it.' Then, after a moment's pondering, almost to her own surprise, she broke out with a flash of inspiration. "'Well, go over and see, Mr. Seldon. You'll have time to do it before dinner.' "'Oh, dinner!' he mocked her. But she left him with the smiling rejoinder. "'Dinner on board, remember. We'll put it off. Till nine, if you like.' It was past four already, and when a cab had dropped her at the quay, and she stood waiting for the gig to put off for her, she began to wonder what had been happening on the yacht. Of Silverton's whereabouts there had been no mention. Had he returned to the Sabrina, or could Bertha the dread alternative sprang on her suddenly? Could Bertha, left to herself, have gone ashore to rejoin him?' Bertha's heart stood still at the thought. All her concern had hitherto been for young Silverton, not only because in such affairs the woman's instinct is to side with a man, but because his case made a peculiar appeal to her sympathies. He was so desperately in earnest poor youth, and his earnestness was of so different a quality from Bertha's, though hers too was desperate enough. The difference was that Bertha was in earnest only about herself, while he was in earnest about her. But now, at the actual crisis, this difference seemed to throw the weight of destitution on Bertha's side, since at least he had her to suffer for, and she had only herself. At any rate, viewed less ideally, all the disadvantages of such a situation were for the woman, and it was to Bertha that Lily's sympathies now went out. She was not fond of Bertha Dorsett, but neither was she without a sense of obligation, the heavier for having so little personal liking to sustain it. Bertha had been kind to her. They had lived together, during the last months, on terms of easy friendship, and the sense of friction of which Lily had recently become aware seemed to make it the more urgent that she should work, undividedly, in her friend's interest. It was in Bertha's interest, certainly, that she had dispatched Dorsett to consult with Lawrence Saldin. Once the grotesqueness of the situation accepted, she had seen at a glance that it was the safest in which Dorsett could find himself. Who but Saldin could thus miraculously combine the skill to save Bertha with the obligation of doing so, the consciousness that much skill would be required made Lily rest thankfully in the greatness of the obligation. Since he would have to pull Bertha through, she could trust him to find a way, and she put the fullness of her trust in the telegram she managed to send him on her way to the quay. Thus far, then, Lily felt she had done well, and the conviction strengthened her for the task that remained. She and Bertha had never been on confidential terms, but at such a crisis the barriers of reserve must surely fall. Dorsett's wild allusions, to the scene of the morning, made Lily feel that they were down already, and that any attempt to rebuild them would be beyond Bertha's strength. She pictured the poor creature shivering behind her fallen defenses and awaiting with suspense the moment when she could take refuge in the first shelter that offered, if only that shelter had not already offered itself elsewhere. As the gig traversed the short distance between the quay and the yacht, Lily grew more than ever alarmed at the possible consequences of her long absence. What if the wretched Bertha, finding in all the long hours no soul to turn to, but by this time Lily's eager foot was on the side ladder, and her first step on the Sabrina showed the worst of her apprehensions to be unfounded, for there in the luxurious shade of the afterdeck, the wretched Bertha, in full command of her usual attenuated elegance, sat spencing tea to the Duchess of Belcher and Lord Hubert. The sight filled Lily with such surprise that she felt that Bertha, at least, must read its meaning in her look, and she was proportionately disconcerted by the blankness of the look returned. But in an instant she saw that Mrs. Dorset had, of necessity, to look blank before the others, and that to mitigate the effect of her own surprise she must at once produce some simple reason for it. The long habit of rapid transitions made it easy for her to exclaim to the Duchess why I thought she'd gone back to the princess, and this suffice for the lady she addressed, if it was hardly enough for Lord Hubert. At least it opened the way to a lively explanation of how the Duchess was, in fact, going back the next moment, but had first rushed out to the ought for a word with Mrs. Dorset on the subject of to-morrow's dinner, the dinner with the prize to which Lord Hubert had finally insisted on dragging them. To save my neck, you know, he explained, with a glance that appealed to Lily for some recognition of his promptness, and the Duchess added with her noble candor. Mr. Brie has promised him a tip, and he says, if we go, he'll pass it on to us. This led to some final pleasantries, in which, as it seemed to Lily, Mrs. Dorset bore her part with astounding bravery, and at the close of which Lord Hubert, from half-way down the side-ladder, called back with an air of numbering heads, and of course we may count on Dorset, too. Oh, count on him, his wife assented gaily. She was keeping up well to the last. But as she turned back from waving her adduce over the side, Lily said to herself that the mask must drop, and the soul of fear look out. Mrs. Dorset turned back slowly. Perhaps she wanted time to study her muscles. At any rate, they were still under perfect control when, dropping once more into her seat behind the tea-table, she remarked to Miss Bart with a faint touch of irony. I suppose I ought to say, good morning. If it was a cue, Lily was ready to take it, though with only the vaguest sense of what was expected of her in return. There was something unnerving in the contemplation of Mrs. Dorset's composure, and she had to force the light tone in which she answered. I tried to see you this morning, but you were not yet up. No, I got bed late. After we missed you at the station, I thought we ought to wait for you till the last train. She spoke very gently, but with just the least tinge of reproach. You missed us? You waited for us at the station? Now, indeed Lily was too far adrift in bewilderment to measure the other's words or keep watch on her own. But I thought you didn't get to the station till after the last train had left. Mrs. Dorset, examining her between lowered leads, met this with the immediate query. Who told you that? George, I just saw him now in the gardens. Ah, is that George's version. Poor George, he was in no state to remember what I told him. He had one of his worst attacks this morning, and I packed him off to see the doctor. Do you know if he found him? Lily, still lost in conjecture, made no reply, and Mrs. Dorset settled herself indolently in her seat. He'll wait to see him. He was horribly frightened about himself. It's very bad for him to be worried, and whenever anything upsetting happens, it always brings on an attack. This time Lily felt sure that a cue was being pressed on her. But it was put forth with such startling suddenness, and with so incredible an air of ignoring what it led up to, that she could only falter out doubtfully. Anything upsetting? Yes, such as having you so conspicuously on his hands in the small hours. You know, my dear, you're rather a big responsibility in such a scandalous place after midnight. At that, at the complete unexpectedness and the inconceivable audacity of it, Lily could not restrain the tribute of an astonished laugh. Oh, well, really, considering it was you who burdened him with the responsibility. Mrs. Dorset took this with an exquisite mildness. By not having the superhuman cleverness to discover you in that frightful rush for the train, or the imagination to believe that you'd take it without us, you and he, all alone, instead of waiting quietly in the station till we did manage to meet you? Lily's color rose. It was growing clear to her that Bertha was pursuing an object following a line she had marked out for herself. Only with such a doom impending, why waste time in these childish efforts to avert it? The purity of the attempt disarmed Lily's indignation. Did it not prove how horribly the poor creature was frightened? No, by our simply all keeping together at Nice, she returned, keeping together, when it was you who seized the first opportunity to rush off with the duchess and her friends, my dear Lily, you are not a child to be led by the hand. No, nor to be lectured, Bertha, really, if that's what you are doing to me now. This dorset smiled on her reproachfully. Lecture you! I! Heaven forbid! I was merely trying to give you a friendly hint, but it's usually the other way around, isn't it? I'm expected to take hints, not to give them. I've positively lived on them all these last months. Hints, from me to you, Lily repeated. Oh, negative ones, merely, but not to be, and to do, and to see, and I think I've taken them to admiration. Only, my dear, if you let me say so, I didn't understand that one of my negative duties was not to warn you when you carried your imprudence too far. A chill of fear passed over Miss Bart. A sense of remembered treachery that was like the gleam of a knife in the dusk. But compassion, in a moment, got the better of her instinctive recoil. What was this outpouring of senseless bitterness but the tractive creature's attempt to cloud the medium through which it was fleeing? It was on Lily's lips to exclaim, You poor soul, don't double and turn, come straight back to me, and we'll find a way out. But the words died under the impenetrable insolence of Bertha's smile. Lily sat silent, taking the brunt of it quietly, letting it spend itself on her, to the last drop of its accumulated falseness. Then without a word she rose and went down to her cabin. CHAPTER III OF THE HOUSE OF MERTH by Edith Wharton Miss Bart's telegram caught Lawrence Seldon at the door of his hotel, and having read it, he turned back to wait for Dorset. The message necessarily left large gaps for conjecture, but all that he had recently heard and seen made these but too easy to fill in. On the whole he was surprised, for though he had perceived that the situation contained all the elements of an explosion, he had often enough in the range of his personal experience seen just such combinations subside into harmlessness. Still, Dorset's spasmodic temper and his wife's reckless disregard of appearances gave the situation a peculiar insecurity, and it was less from the sense of any special relation to the case than from a purely professional zeal that Seldon resolved to guide the pair to safety. Whether, in the present instance, safety for either lay in repairing so damaged a tie, it was no business of his to consider. He had only on general principles to think of averting a scandal, and his desire to avert it was increased by his fear of its involving Miss Bart. There was nothing specific in this apprehension. He merely wished to spare her the embarrassment of being ever so remotely connected with the public washing of the Dorset Lennon. How exhaustive and unpleasant such a process would be, he saw even more vividly after his two hours' talk with poor Dorset. If anything came out at all it would be such a vast unpacking of accumulated moral rags as left him after his visitor had gone with a feeling that he must fling open the windows and have his room swept out. But nothing should come out, and happily for his side of the case, the dirty rags, however pieced together, could not, without considerable difficulty, be turned into a homogenous grievance. The torn edges did not always fit. There were missing bits. There were disparities of size and color, all of which it was naturally Soldan's business to make the most of in putting them under his client's eye. But to a man in Dorset's mood the completest demonstration could not carry conviction, and Soldan saw that for the moment all he could do was to soothe and temporize, to offer sympathy and to counsel prudence. He let Dorset depart, charged to the brim, with the sense that, till their next meeting, he must maintain a strictly non-committal attitude. That, in short, his share in the game consisted for the present in looking on. Soldan knew, however, that he could not long keep such violences in equilibrium, and he promised to meet Dorset the next morning at a hotel in Monte Carlo. Meanwhile he counted not a little on the reaction of weakness and self-distrust that, in such natures, follows on every unwanted expenditure of moral force, and his telegraphic reply to Miss Bart consisted simply in the injunction, assume that everything is as usual. On this assumption, in fact, the early part of the following day was lived through. Dorset, as if in obedience to Lily's imperative bidding, had actually returned in time for a late dinner on the yacht. The repast had been the most difficult moment of the day. Dorset was sunk in one of the abysmal silences which so commonly followed on what his wife called his attacks. That it was easy, before the servants, to refer it to this cause, but Bertha herself seemed, perversely enough, little disposed to make use of this obvious means of protection. She simply left the brunt of the situation on her husband's hands, as if too absorbed in a grievance of her own to suspect that she might be the object of one herself. To Lily this attitude was the most ominous, because the most perplexing element in the situation. As she tried to fan the weak flicker of talk, to build up, again and again, the crumbling structure of appearances, her own attention was perpetually distracted by the question, What unearth can she be driving at? There was something positively exasperating in Bertha's attitude of isolated defiance. If only she would have given her friend a hint, they might still have worked together successfully. But how could Lily be of use, while she was thus obstinately shut out from participation? To be of use was what she honestly wanted, and not for her own sake, but for the Dorsets. She had not thought of her own situation at all. She was simply engrossed in trying to put a little order in theirs. But the close of the short dreary evening left her with a sense of effort, hopelessly wasted. She had not tried to see Dorset alone. She had positively shrunk from a renewal of his confidences. It was Bertha whose confidence she sought, and who should as eagerly have invited her own. And Bertha, as if in the infatuation of self-destruction, was actually pushing away her rescuing hand. Lily, going to bed early, had left the couple to themselves, and it seemed part of the general mystery in which she moved, that more than an hour should elapse before she heard Bertha walk down the silent passage and regain her room. The morrow, rising on an apparent continuance of the same conditions, revealed nothing of what had occurred between the confronted pair. One fact alone outwardly proclaimed the change they were all conspiring to ignore, and that was the non-appearance of net Silverton. No one referred to it, and this tacit avoidance of the subject kept it in the immediate foreground of consciousness. But there was another change, perceptible only to Lily, and that was that Dorset now avoided her almost as pointedly as his wife. Perhaps he was repenting his rash outpourings of the previous day, perhaps only trying, in his clumsy way, to conform to Sulton's counsel to behave as usual. Such instructions no more make for easiness of attitude than the photographer's behest to look natural, and in a creature as unconscious as poor Dorset of the appearance he habitually presented the struggle to maintain a pose was sure to result in queer contortions. It resulted, at any rate, in throwing Lily strangely on her own resources. She had learned, on leaving her room, that Mrs. Dorset was still invisible, and that Dorset had left the yacht early, and, feeling too restless to remain alone, she, too, had herself ferried ashore. Straying toward the casino, she attached herself to a group of acquaintances from Nice, with whom she lunched, and in his company she was returning to the rooms when she encountered Sulton crossing the square. She could not, at the moment, separate herself definitely from her party, who had hospitably assumed that she would remain with them till they took their departure, but she found time for a momentary pause of inquiry to which he promptly returned. I've seen him again. He's just left me. She waited before him anxiously. Well, what has happened? What will happen? Nothing as yet, and nothing in the future, I think. It's over then. It's settled. You're sure. He smiled. Give me time. I'm not sure. But I'm a good deal, sure. And with that, she had to content herself, and hasten on to the expectant group on the steps. Sulton had, in fact, given her the utmost measure of his sureness, had even stretched it a shade to meet the anxiety in her eyes. And now, as he turned away, strolling down the hill toward the station, that anxiety remained with him as the visible justification of his own. It was not, indeed, anything specific that he feared. There had been a literal truth in his declaration that he did not think anything would happen. What troubled him was that, though Dorset's attitude had perceptibly changed, the change was not clearly to be accounted for. It had certainly not been produced by Sulton's arguments, or by the action of his own soberer reason. Five minutes' talk sufficed to show that some alien influence had been at work, and that it had not so much subdued his resentment as weakened his will, so that he moved under it in a state of apathy, like a dangerous lunatic who has been drugged. Temporarily, no doubt, however exerted, it worked for the general safety. The question was how long it would last, and by what kind of reaction it was likely to be followed. On these points Sulton could gain no light, for he saw that one effect of the transformation had been to shut him off from free communion with Dorset. The latter, indeed, was still moved by the irresistible desire to discuss his wrong. But, though he revolved about it with the same forlorn tenacity, Sulton was aware that something always restrained him from full expression. His state was one to produce first weariness, then impatience in his hearer, and when their talk was over, Sulton began to feel that he had done his utmost, and might justifiably wash his hands of the sequel. It was in this mind that he had been making his way back to the station, when Miss Bart crossed his path. But, though after his brief word with her, he kept mechanically on his course, he was conscious of a gradual change in his purpose. The change had been produced by the look in her eyes, and in his eagerness to define the nature of that look, he dropped into a seat in the gardens and sat brooding upon the question. It was natural enough, in all conscience, that she should appear anxious. A young woman placed in the close intimacy of a yachting-cruise between a couple on the verge of disaster could hardly, aside from her concern for her friends, be insensible to the awkwardness of her own position. The worst of it was that, in interpreting Miss Bart's state of mind, so many alternative readings were possible, and one of these, in Sulton's troubled mind, took the ugly form suggested by Mrs. Fisher. If the girl was afraid, was she afraid for herself, or for her friends? And to what degree was her dread of catastrophe intensified by the sense of being fatally involved in it? The burden of offense, lying manifestly with Mrs. Dorset, this conjecture seemed on the face of it gratuitously unkind. But Sulton knew that, in the most one-sided, matrimonial quarrel, there are generally counter-charges to be brought, and that they are brought with the greater audacity, where the original grievance is so emphatic. Mrs. Fisher had not hesitated to suggest the likelihood of Dorset's marrying Miss Bart, if anything happened. And though Mrs. Fisher's conclusions were notoriously rash, she was shrewd enough in reading the signs from which they were drawn. Dorset had apparently shown marked interest in the girl, and this interest might be used to cruel advantage in his wife's struggle for rehabilitation. Sulton knew that Bertha would fight to the last round of powder. The rashness of her conduct was illogically combined with a cold determination to escape its consequences. She could be as unscrupulous in fighting for herself as she was reckless in courting danger, and whatever came to her hand at such moments was likely to be used as a defensive missile. He did not, as yet, see clearly just what course she was likely to take, but his perplexity increased his apprehension and with it the sense that, before leaving, he must speak again with Miss Bart. Whatever her share in the situation, and he had always honestly tried to resist judging her by her surroundings, however free she might be from any personal connection with it, she would be better out of the way, of a possible crash, and since she had appealed to him for help, it was clearly his business to tell her so. This decision at last brought him to his feet and carried him back to the gambling-rooms, within whose doors he had seen her disappearing, but a prolonged exploration of the crowd failed to put him on her traces. He saw instead, to his surprise, Ed Silverton loitering somewhat ostentatiously about the tables, and the discovery that this actor and the drama was not only hovering in the wings, but actually inviting the exposure of the footlights, though it might have seemed to imply that all peril was over, served rather to deepen the seldom sense of foreboding. Charged with this impression, he returned to the square, hoping to see Miss Bart move across it, as everyone in Monte Carlo seemed inevitably to do at least a dozen times a day. But here again he waited vainly for a glimpse of her, and the conclusion was slowly forced on him that she had gone back to the Sabrina. It would be difficult to follow her there, and still more difficult, should he do so, to contrive the opportunity for a private word, and he had almost decided on the unsatisfactory alternative of writing when the ceaseless diorama of the square suddenly unrolled before him the figures of Lord Hubert and Mrs. Brie. Hailing them at once with his question, he learned from Lord Hubert that Miss Bart had just returned to the Sabrina, endorse its company, an announcement so evidently disconcerting to him that Mrs. Brie, after a glance from her companion, which seemed to act like the pressure on a spring, brought forth the prompt proposal that he should come and meet his friends at dinner that evening. At Becca Sins, a little dinner to the Duchess, she flashed out before Lord Hubert had time to remove the pressure. Selden's sense of the privilege of being included in such company brought him early in the evening to the door of the restaurant, where he paused to scan the ranks of diners approaching down the brightly lit terrace. There, while the briars hovered within over the last agitating alternatives of the menu, he kept watch for the guests from the Sabrina, who at length rose on the horizon in company with the Duchess, Lord and Lady Skidah, and the Stepneys. From this group it was easy for him to detach Miss Bart on the pretext of a moment's glance into one of the brilliant shops along the terrace and to say to her, while they lingered together in the white dazzle of a jeweler's window, I stomped over to see you, to beg of you, to leave the yacht. The eyes she turned on him showed a quick gleam of her former fear. To leave? What do you mean? What has happened? Nothing, but if anything should, why be in the way of it? The glare from the jeweler's window, deepening the power of her face, gave to its delicate lines the sharpness of a tragic mask. Nothing will, I am sure, but while there's even a doubt left, how can you think I would leave Bertha? The words rang out on a note of contempt. Was it possibly of contempt for himself? Well, he was willing to risk its renewal to the extent of insisting with an undeniable throb of added interest. You have yourself to think of, you know. To which, with a strange fall of sadness in her voice, she answered meeting his eyes. If you knew how little difference that makes. Oh, well, nothing will happen, he said, more for his own reassurance than for hers. And nothing, nothing, of course, she valiantly assented, as they turned to overtake their companions. In the thronged restaurant, taking their places about Mrs. Brice, illuminated bored, their confidence seemed to gain support from the familiarity of their surroundings. Here were Dorset and his wife once more presenting their customary faces to the world. She engrossed in establishing her relation with an intensely new gown, he shrinking with dyspeptic dread from the multiplied solicitations of the menu. The mere fact that they thus showed themselves together, with the utmost openness the place afforded, seemed to declare beyond a doubt that their differences were composed. How this end had been attained was still matter for wonder, but it was clear that for the moment Miss Bart rested confidently in the result, and Seldon tried to achieve the same view by telling himself that her opportunities for observation had been ampler than his own. Meanwhile, as the dinner advanced through a labour-enth of courses, in which it became clear that Mrs. Brice had occasionally broken away from Lord Huber's restraining hand, Seldon's general watchfulness began to lose itself in a particular study of Miss Bart. It was one of the days when she was so handsome that to be handsome was enough, and all the rest, her grace, her quickness, her social felicities, seemed to be the overflow of a bounteous nature. But what especially struck him was the way in which she detached herself by a hundred undefinable shades from the persons who most abounded in her own style. It was in just such company the fine flower and complete expression of the state she aspired to that the differences came out with special poignancy. Her grace cheapening the other women's smartness as her finely discriminated silences made their chatter dull. The strain of the last hours had restored to her face the deeper eloquence which Seldon had lately missed in it, and the bravery of her words to him still fluttered in her voice and eyes. Yes, she was matchless. It was the one word for her, and he could give his admiration the freer play because so little personal feeling remained in it. His real detachment from her had taken place not at the lurid moment of disenchantment, but now in the sober afterlite of discrimination, where he saw her definitely divided from him by the crudeness of a choice which seemed to deny the very differences he felt in her. It was before him, again, in its completeness the choice in which she was content to rest in the stupid costliness of the food and the showy dullness of the talk, in the freedom of speech which never arrived at wit, and the freedom of act which never made for romance. The strident setting of the restaurant in which their table seemed set apart in a special glare of publicity, and the presence at it of little dabble of the Riviera notes emphasized the ideals of a world where conspicuousness passed for distinction, and the society column had become the role of fame. It was as the immortalizer of such occasions that little dabble wedged in modest watchfulness between two brilliant neighbors. Suddenly became the center of Seldon's scrutiny. How much did he know of what was going on, and how much, for his purpose, was still worth finding out? His little eyes were like tentacles thrown out to catch the floating intimations, with which, to Seldon, the air at moments seemed thick. Then again it cleared to its normal emptiness, and he could see nothing in it for the journalist but leisure to note the elegance of the lady's gowns. Mrs. Dorset's, in particular, challenged all the wealth of Mr. Dabble's vocabulary. It had surprises and subtleties worthy of what he would have called the literary style. At first, as Seldon had noticed, it had been almost too preoccupying to its wearer, but now she was in full command of it, and was even producing her effects with unwanted freedom. Was she not, indeed, too free, too fluent for perfect naturalness, and was not Dorset to whom his glance had passed by a natural transition, too jerkily wavering between the same extremes? Dorset, indeed, was always jerky, but it seemed to Seldon that tonight each vibration swung him farther from his center. The dinner, meanwhile, was moving to its triumphant close, to the evident satisfaction of Mrs. Bride, who, thrown in apoplectic majesty between Lord Skidah and Lord Hubert, seemed in spirit to be calling on Mrs. Fisher to witness her achievement. Short of Mrs. Fisher, her audience might have been called complete, for the restaurant was crowded with persons mainly gathered there for the purpose of spectatorship, and accurately posted as to the names and faces of the celebrities they had come to see. Mrs. Bride conscious that all her feminine guests came under that heading, and that each one looked her part to admiration shown on Lily with all the pent-up gratitude that Mrs. Fisher had failed to deserve. Seldon, catching the glance, wondered what part Miss Bart had played in organizing the entertainment. She did, at least, a great deal to adorn it. Mrs. Bride conscious that all her feminine guests came under that heading, and that each one looked her part to admiration shown on Lily with all the pent-up gratitude that Mrs. Fisher had failed to deserve. Seldon, catching the glance, wondered what part Miss Bart had played in organizing the entertainment. She did, at least, a great deal to adorn it, and as he watched the bright security with which she bore herself, he smiled to think that he should have fancied her in need of help, never had she appeared more serenely mistress of the situation than, when, at the moment of dispersal, detaching herself a little from the group about the table, she turned with a smile and a graceful slant of the shoulders to receive her cloak from Dorset. The dinner had been protracted over Mr. Bride's exceptional cigars and a bewildering array of liqueurs, and many of the other tables were empty, but a sufficient number of diners still lingered to give relief to the leave-taking of Mrs. Bride's distinguished guests. This ceremony was drawn out and complicated by the fact that it involved, on the part of the Duchess and Ladies-Gidda, definite farewells and pledges of speedy reunion in Paris, where they were to pause and replenish their wardrobes on the way to England. The quality of Mrs. Bride's hospitality and of the tips her husband had presumably imported lent to the manner of the English ladies a general effusiveness which shed the rosiest light over their hostess's future. In its glow Mrs. Dorset and the Stepneys were also visibly included, and the whole scene had touches of intimacy worth their weight in gold to the watchful pen of Mr. Dabham. A glance at her watch caused the Duchess to exclaim to her sister that they had just time to dash for their train, and the flurry of this departure over the Stepneys, who had their motor at the door, offered to convey the Dorsets and Miss Bart to the Quay. The offer was accepted, and Mrs. Dorset moved away with her husband in attendance. Miss Bart had lingered for a last word with the Lord Hubert, and Stepney, on whom Mr. Bride was pressing a final and still more expensive cigar, called out, Come on, Lily, if you're going back to the yacht. Lily turned to obey, but as she did so Mrs. Dorset, who had paused on her way out, moved a few steps back toward the table. Miss Bart is not going back to the yacht, she said, in a voice of singular distinctness. A startled look ran from eye to eye. Mrs. Bride crimsoned to the verge of congestion. Mrs. Stepney slipped nervously behind her husband, and Seldon, in the general turmoil of his sensations, was mainly conscious of a longing to grip Dabham by the collar and fling him out into the street. Dorset, meanwhile, had stepped back to his wife's side. His face was white, and he looked about him with cowed angry eyes. Bertha! Miss Bart, this is some misunderstanding, some mistake. Miss Bart remains here, his wife rejoined incisively, and, I think, George, we had better not detain Mrs. Stepney any longer. Miss Bart, during this brief exchange of words, remained in admirable erectness, slightly isolated from the embarrassed group about her. She had paled a little under the shock of the insult, but the discomposure of the surrounding faces was not reflected in her own. The faint disdain of her smile seemed to lift her high above her antagonist's reach, and it was not till she had given Mrs. Dorset the full measure of the distance between them that she turned and extended her hand to her hostess. I am joining the duchess to-morrow, she explained, and it seemed easier for me to remain on shore for the night. She held firmly to Mrs. Bride's wavering eye while she gave this explanation, but when it was over, Seldon saw her send a tentative glance from one to another of the women's faces. She read their incredulity and their averted looks, and in the mute wretchedness of the men behind them, and for a miserable half second he thought she quivered on the brink of failure, then turning to him with an easy gesture and the pale bravery of her recovered smile. Dear Mr. Seldon, she said, you promised to see me to my cab. Outside the sky was gusty and overcast, and as Lily and Seldon moved toward the deserted gardens below the restaurant, spurts of warm rain blew fitfully against their faces. The fiction of the cab had been tacitly abandoned. They walked on in silence, her hand on his arm, till the deeper shade of the gardens received them, and, pausing beside a bench, he said. Sit down a moment. She dropped to the seat without answering, but the electric lamp at the bend of the path shed a gleam on the struggling misery of her face. Seldon sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak, fearful lest any word he chose should touch too roughly on her wound, and kept also from free utterance by the wretched doubt which had slowly renewed itself within him. What had brought her to this pass? What weakness had placed her so abominably at her enemy's mercy? And why should Bertha Dorsett have turned into an enemy at the very moment when she so obviously needed the support of her sex? Even while his nerves raged at the subjection of husbands to their wives and at the cruelty of women to their kind, reason obstinately harped on the proverbial relation between smoke and fire. The memory of Mrs. Fisher's hints, and the corroboration of his own impressions, while they deepened his pity, also increased his constraint, since whichever way he sought a free outlet for sympathy, it was blocked by the fear of committing a blunder. Suddenly it struck him that his silence must seem almost as accusatory as that of the men he had despised for turning from her, but before he could find the fitting word she had cut him short with a question. Do you know of a quiet hotel I can send for my maid in the morning? An hotel here that you can go to alone it's not possible. She met this with a pale glam of her own playfulness. What is, then, it's too wet to sleep in the gardens? But there must be some one. Some one to home I can go. Of course, any number, but at this hour? You see my change of plan was rather sudden. Good God, if you'd listened to me! he cried, venting his helplessness in a burst of anger. She still held him off with the gentle mockery of her smile. But haven't I? she rejoined. He advised me to leave the yacht, and I'm leaving it. He saw, then, with a pang of self-reproach, that she meant neither to explain nor to defend herself, that by his miserable silence he had forfeited all chance of helping her and that the decisive hour was passed. She had risen and stood before him in a kind of clouded majesty like some deposed princess moving tranquilly to exile. Lily, he exclaimed, with a note of despairing appeal. But, oh, not now, she gently admonished him, and then, in all the sweetness of her recovered composure, since I must find shelter somewhere, and since you're so kindly here to help me. He gathered himself up at the challenge. You will do as I tell you. There's but one thing, then. You must go straight to your cousins, the Stephanie's. Oh, broke from her in a moment of instinctive resistance. But he insisted, come, it's late, and you must appear to have gone there directly. He had drawn her hand into his arm, but she held him back with a last gesture of protest. I can't, I can't. Not that. You don't know when. You mustn't ask me. I must ask you. You must obey me, he persisted. Though infected at heart by her own fear. Her voice sank to a whisper. And if she refuses, but, oh, trust me, trust me, he could only insist in return, and yielding to his touch, she let him lead her back in silence to the edge of the square. In the cab they continued to remain silent through the brief drive which carried them to the illuminated portals of the Stephanie's Hotel. Here he left her outside, in the darkness of the raised hood, while his name was sent up to Stephanie, and he paced the showy hall, awaiting the latter's descent. Ten minutes later the two men passed out together, between the gold-laced custodians on the threshold, but in the vestibule Stephanie drew up with a last flair of her reluctance. It's understood then, he stipulated nervously, with his hand on Seldon's arm. She leaves to-morrow, by the early train, and my wife's asleep, and can't be disturbed. End of Book II, Chapter III. The blinds of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room were drawn down against the oppressive June sun, and in the sultry twilight the faces of her assembled relatives took on a fitting shadow of bereavement. They were all there, Van Allstyn's, Stephanie's, and Belsen's, even a stray Peniston or two, indicating by a greater latitude in dress and manner the fact of remotor relationship and more settled hopes. The Peniston side was, in fact, secure in the knowledge that the bulk of Mr. Peniston's property went back, while the direct connection hung suspended on the disposal of his widow's private fortune, and on the uncertainty of its extent. Jack Stephanie and his new character as the richest nephew tacitly took the lead, emphasizing his importance by the deeper gloss of his mourning and the subdued authority of his manner, while his wife's bored attitude and frivolous gown proclaimed the Paris's disregard of the insignificant interests at stake. Old Ned Van Allstyn, seated next to her in a coat that made a flitching dapper, twirled his white mustache to conceal the eager twitch of his lips, and Grace Stephanie, red-nosed and smelling of crepe, whispered emotionally to Mrs. Herbert Melsen, I couldn't bear to see the Niagara anywhere else. A rustle of weeds and quick turning of heads hailed the opening of the door, and Lily Bart appeared, tall and noble in her black dress, with Gertie Farage at her side. The women's faces, as she paused interrogatively on the threshold, were a study in hesitation. One or two made faint motions of recognition, which might have been subdued either by the solemnity of the scene or by the doubt as to how far the others meant to go. Mrs. Jack Stepney gave a careless nod, and Grace Stephanie, with a sepulchral gesture, indicated a seat at her side. But Lily, ignoring the invitation, as well as Jack Stephanie's official attempt to direct her, moved across the room with her smooth, free gate, and seated herself in a chair, which seemed to have been purposely placed apart from the others. It was the first time that she had faced her family since her return from Europe two weeks earlier. But if she pursued any uncertainty in their welcome, it served only to add a tinge of irony to the usual composure of her bearing. The shock of dismay with which, on the dock, she had heard from Gertie Farage of Mrs. Peniston's sudden death had been mitigated almost at once by the irrepressible thought that now, at last, she would be able to pay her debts. She had looked forward with considerable uneasiness to her first encounter with her aunt. Mrs. Peniston had vehemently opposed her niece's departure with the Dorsets, and had marked her continued disapproval by not writing during Lily's absence. The certainty that she had heard of the rupture with the Dorsets made the prospect of the meeting more formidable. And how should Lily have repressed a quick sense of relief at the thought that, instead of undergoing the anticipated ordeal, she had only to enter gracefully on a long, assured inheritance? It had been, in the consecrated phrase, always understood that Mrs. Peniston was to provide handsomely for her niece, and in the latter's mind the understanding had long since crystallized into light. She gets everything, of course. I don't see what we're here for, Mrs. Jack Stepney remarked with careless loudness to Ned Van Allstain and the latter's deprecating murmur. Julia was always a just woman. Might have been interpreted as signifying either acquiescence or doubt. Well, it's only about four hundred thousand. Mrs. Stepney rejoined with a yawn, and graced Stepney in the silence produced by the Lawyer's preliminary cough was heard to sob out. They won't find a towel missing. I went over them with her the very day. Lily, oppressed by the close atmosphere and the stifling odor of fresh mourning, felt her attention straying as Mrs. Peniston's Lawyer, solemnly erect behind the bold table at the end of the room, began to rattle through the preamble of the will. It's like being in church, she reflected, wandering vaguely where Gwen Stepney had got such an awful hat. Then she noticed how stout Jack had grown. He would soon be almost as plethoric as Herbert Melson, who sat a few feet off, breathing puffily as he leaned his black-gloved hands on his stick. I wonder why rich people always grow fat. I suppose it's because there's nothing to worry them. If I inherit, I shall have to be careful of my figure, she mused, while the Lawyer droned on through a labyrinth of legacies. The servants came first, then a few charitable institutions, then several remotor Melsons and Stepneys, who stirred consciously as their names rang out, and then subsided into a state of impassiveness, befitting the solemnity of the occasion. Ned Van Allstein, Jack Stepney, and a cousin or two followed, each coupled with the mention of a few thousands. Lily wondered that Grace Stepney was not among them. Then she heard her own name. To my niece, Lily Bart, ten thousand dollars. And after that the Lawyer again lost himself in a coil of unintelligible periods, from which the concluding phrase flashed out with startling distinctness, and the residue of my estate to my dear cousin and namesake, Grace Julia Stepney. There was a subdued gasp of surprise, a rapid turning of heads, and a surging of sable figures toward the corner in which Miss Stepney wailed out her sense of unworthiness through the crumpled ball of a black-edged handkerchief. Lily stood apart from the general movement, failing herself for the first time utterly alone. No one looked at her. No one seemed aware of her presence. She was probing the very depths of insignificance, and under her sense of the collective indifference came the acuteer pang of hopes deceived, disinherited. She had been disinherited, and for Grace Stepney! She met Gertie's lamentable eyes, fixed on her in a despairing effort at consolation, and the look brought her to herself. There was something to be done before she left the house. To be done with all the nobility she knew how to put into such gestures. She advanced to the group about Miss Stepney, and, holding out her hand, said simply, Dear Grace, I am so glad! The other ladies had fallen back at her approach, and a space created itself about her. She widened as she turned to go, and no one advanced to fill it up. She paused a moment, glancing about her, calmly taking the measure of the situation. She heard someone ask a question about the date of the will. She caught a fragment of the lawyer's answer, something about a sudden summons and an earlier instrument. Then the tide of dispersal began to drift past her. Mrs. Jack Stepney and Mrs. Herbert Melson stood on the doorstep, pushing their motor. A sympathizing group escorted Grace Stepney to the cab. It was felt to be fitting she should take, though she lived but a street or two away. And Miss Bart and Gertie found themselves almost alone in the purple drawing-room, which, more than ever, in its stuffy dimness, resembled a well-kept family vault in which the last corpse had just been decently deposited. In Gertie Farrish's sitting-room, whither a handsome had carried the two friends, Lily dropped into a chair with a faint sound of laughter. It struck her as a humorous coincidence that her aunt's legacy should so nearly represent the amount of her debt to Trenor. The need of discharging that debt had reasserted itself with increased urgency since her return to America, and she spoke her first thought in saying to the anxiously hovering Gertie, I wonder when the legacies will be paid. But Miss Farrish could not pause over the legacies. She broke into a larger indignation. Oh, Lily, it's just unjust. It's cruel. Grace Stepney must feel she has no right to all that money. Anyone who knew how to please Aunt Julia has a right to her money. Miss Bart rejoined philosophically. But she was devoted to you. She led everyone to think. Gertie checked herself in evident embarrassment, and Miss Bart turned to her with a direct look. Gertie, be honest, this will was made only six weeks ago. She had heard of my break with the dorsets. Everyone heard, of course, that there had been some disagreement, some misunderstanding. Did she hear that Bertha turned me off the yacht? Lily! That was what happened, you know. She said I was trying to marry George Dorset. She did it to make him think she was jealous. Isn't that what she told Gwen Stepney? I don't know. I don't listen to such horrors. I must listen to them. I must know where I stand. She paused, and again sounded a faint note of derision. Did you notice the women? They were afraid to snub me, while they thought I was going to get the money. Afterward they scuttled out as if I had the plague. Gertie remained silent, and she continued. I stayed on to see what would happen. They took their cue from Gwen Stepney and Lulu Melson. I saw them watching to see what Gwen would do. Gertie, I must know just what is being said of me. I tell you I don't listen. One hears such things without listening. She rose and laid her resolute hands on misferishes, shoulders. Gertie, are people going to cut me? Your friends, Lily, how can you think it? Who are one's friends at such a time? Who but you, you poor, trustful darling? And Heaven knows what you suspect me of. She kissed Gertie with a whimsical murmur. You'd never let it make any difference. But then you're fond of criminals, Gertie. How about the irreclamable ones, though? For I'm absolutely impenitent, you know. She drew herself up to the full height of her slender majesty, towering like some dark angel of defiance above the troubled Gertie, who could only falter out. Lily, Lily, how can you laugh about such things? So as not to weep, perhaps, but no, I'm not of the tearful order. I discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has helped me through several painful episodes. She took a restless turn about the room, and then, receding herself, lifted the bright mockery of her eyes to Gertie's anxious countenance. I shouldn't have minded, you know, if I'd got the money and at misferishes protesting. Oh! she repeated calmly. Not a straw, my dear, for in the first place they wouldn't have quite dared to ignore me, and if they had, it wouldn't have mattered, because I should have been independent of them. But now the irony faded from her eyes, and she bent a clouded face upon her front. How can you talk so, Lily? Of course the money ought to have been yours, but after all that makes no difference. The important thing, Gertie paused, and then continued firmly, the important thing is that you should clear yourself, should tell your friends the whole truth. The whole truth, Miss Bart laughed, what is the truth, where a woman is concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe. In this case it's a great deal easier to believe Bertha Dorsett's story than mine, because she has a big house and an opera-box, and it's convenient to be on good terms with her. Miss Farish still fixed her with an anxious gaze. But what is your story, Lily? I don't believe anyone knows it yet. My story? I don't believe I know it myself. You see, I never thought of preparing a version in advance as Bertha did, and if I had, I don't think I should take the trouble to use it now. But Gertie continued with her quiet reasonableness. I don't want a version prepared in advance, but I want you to tell me exactly what happened from the beginning. From the beginning, Miss Bart gently mimicked her. Dear Gertie, how little imagination you good people have, why the beginning was in my cradle, I suppose, in the way I was brought up, and the things I was taught to care for. Or no, I won't blame anybody for my faults. I'll say it was in my blood, and that I got it from some wicked, pleasure-loving ancestress, who reacted against the homely virtues of New Amsterdam, and wanted to be back at the court of the Charleses. And as Miss Farish continued to press her with troubled eyes, she went on impatiently. You asked me just now for the truth. Well the truth about any girl is that once she's talked about, she's done for, and the more she explains her case, the worse it looks. My good Gertie, you don't happen to have a cigarette about you." In her stuffy room at the hotel to which she had gone on landing, Lily Bart that evening reviewed her situation. It was the last week in June, and none of her friends were in town. The few relatives who had stayed on, or returned, for the reading of Mrs. Peniston's will, had taken flight again that afternoon to Newport or Long Island, and not one of them had made any proffer of hospitality to Lily. For the first time in her life she found herself utterly alone, except for Gertie Farish. Even at the actual moment of her break with the Dorsets she had not had so keen a sense of its consequences, for the Duchess of Belcher, hearing of the catastrophe from Lord Hubert, had instantly offered her protection, and under her sheltering wing Lily had made an almost triumphant progress to London. There she had been sorely tempted to linger on in a society which asked of her only to amuse and charm it, without inquiring too curiously how she had acquired her gift for doing so. But Seldon, before they parted, had pressed on her the urgent need of returning it once to her aunt, and Lord Hubert, when he presently reappeared in London, abounded in the same council. Lily did not need to be told that the Duchess's championship was not the best road to social rehabilitation, and as she was, besides aware that her noble defender might at any moment drop her in favor of a new protogé, she reluctantly decided to return to America. But she had not been ten minutes on her native shore before she realized that she had delayed too long to regain it. The dorsets, the steppes, the brides, all the actors and witnesses in the miserable drama had preceded her with their version of the case, and even had she seen the least chance of gaining a hearing for her own, some obscure disdain and reluctance would have restrained her. She knew it was not by explanations and countercharges that she could ever hope to recover her law-standing, but even had she felt the least trust in their efficacy, she would still have been held back by the feeling which had kept her from defending herself to Gertie Farrish, a feeling that was half pride and half humiliation. For though she knew she had been ruthlessly sacrificed to Bertha Dorset's determination to win back her husband, and though her own relation to Dorset had been that of the merest good fellowship, yet she had been perfectly aware from the outset that her part in the affair was, as Carrie Fisher brutally put it, to distract Dorset's attention from his wife. That was what she was there for. It was the price she had chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care, her habit of resolutely facing the facts, and her rare moments of introspection did not now allow her to put any false gloss on the situation. She had suffered for the very faithfulness with which she had carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the part was not a handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all the ugliness of failure. She saw too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of consequences resulting from that failure, and these became clearer to her with every day of her weary lingering in town. She stayed on partly for the comfort of Gertie, Farrish's nearness, and partly for the lack of knowing where to go. She understood well enough the nature of the task before her. She must set out to regain, little by little, the position she had lost, and the first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as possible, on how many of her friends she could count. Her hopes were mainly centered on Mrs. Treanor, who had treasures of easygoing tolerance for those who were amusing or useful to her, and in the noisy rush of whose existence the still small voice of detraction was slow to make itself heard. But, Judy, though she must have been apprised of Miss Bart's return, had not even recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's bereavement demanded. Any advance on Lily's side might have been perilous. There was nothing to do but to trust, to the happy chance of an accidental meeting, and Lily knew that, even so late in the season, there was always a hope of running across her friends in their frequent passages through town. To this end she assiduously showed herself at the restaurants they frequented, where, ended by the troubled Gertie, she lunched luxuriously, as she said, on her expectations. My dear Gertie, you wouldn't have me let the head-waiter see that I've nothing to live on but Aunt Julia's legacy. Think of Grace Stephanie's satisfaction if she came in and found us lunching on cold mutton and tea. What sweet shall we have to-day, dear? Coup, joc, or peches à la mamba. She dropped the menu abruptly, with a quick heightening of color, and Gertie, following her glance, was aware of the advance from and in a room of a party headed by Mrs. Trenner and Carrie Fisher. It was impossible for these ladies and their companions, among whom Lily had at once distinguished both Trenner and Rosdell, not to pass, in going out the table at which the two girls were seated, and Gertie's sense of the fact betrayed itself in the helpless trepidation of her manner. Miss Bart, on the contrary, borne forward on the wave of her buoyant grace, and neither shrinking from her friends nor appearing to lie and wait for them, gave to the encounter the touch of naturalness, which she could impact the most strained situations. Such embarrassment, as was shown, was on Mrs. Trenner's side, and manifested itself in the mingling of exaggerated warmth with imperceptible reservations. Her loudly affirmed pleasure at seeing Miss Bart took the form of a nebulous generalization, which included neither inquiries as to her future, nor the expression of a definite wish to see her again. Lily, well versed in the language of these omissions, knew that they were equally intelligible to the other members of the party. Even Rosdell, flushed as he was with the importance of keeping such company, had once took the temperature of Mrs. Trenner's gorgeality and reflected it in his offhand greeting of Miss Bart. Trenner, red and uncomfortable, had cut short his salutations on the pretext of a word to say to the head waiter, and the rest of the group soon melted away in Mrs. Trenner's wick. It was over in a moment. The waiter, menu in hand, still hung on the result of the choice between school shock and precious alamelba, but Miss Bart, in the interval, had taken the measure of her fate, where Judy Trenner led all the world would follow, and Lily had the doomed sense of the castaway who was signaled in vain to fleeing sales. In a flash she remembered Mrs. Trenner's complaints of Carrie Fish's rapacity, and saw that they denoted an unexpected acquaintance with her husband's private affairs. In the large tumultuous disorder of the life at Bellamont, where no one seemed to have time to observe anyone else, and private ams and personal interests were swept along, unheeded, in the rush of collective activities, Lily had fancied herself sheltered from inconvenient scrutiny. But if Judy knew when Mrs. Fisher borrowed money of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same transaction on Lily's part? If she was careless of his affections, she was plainly jealous of his pocket. And in that fact Lily read the explanation of her rebuff. The immediate result of these conclusions was the passionate resolve to pay back her debt to Trenner. That obligation discharged. She would have but a thousand dollars of Mrs. Peniston's legacy left, and nothing to live on but her own small income, which was considerably less than Gertie Farsh's wretched pittance, but this consideration gave way to the imperative claim of her wounded pride. She must be quits with the Trenner's first. After that she would take thought for the future. In her ignorance of legal procrastinations she had to suppose that her legacy would be paid over within a few days of the reading of her aunt's will, and after an interval of anxious suspense she wrote to inquire the cause of the delay. There was another interval before Mrs. Peniston's lawyer, who was also one of the executors, replied to the effect that, some questions having arisen relative to the interpretation of the will, he and his associates might not be in a position to pay the legacies till the close of the twelve-month legally allotted for their settlement. Bewildered and indignant, Lily resolved to try the effect of a personal appeal, but she returned from her expedition with a sense of the powerlessness of beauty and charm against the unfailing processes of the law. It seemed intolerable to live on for another year under the weight of her debt, and in her extremity she decided to turn to Miss Stepney, who still lingered in town, immersed in the delectable duty of going over her benefactresses' effects. It was bitter enough for Lily to ask a favour of Grace Stepney, but the alternative was bitterer still, and one morning she presented herself at Mrs. Peniston's, where Grace, for the facilitation of her pious task, had taken up a provisional abode. The strangeness of entering as a supplient the house where she had so long commanded increased Lily's desire to shorten the ordeal, and when Miss Stepney entered the darkened drawing-room, rustling with the best quality of crepe, her visitor went straight to the point, which she'd be willing to advance the amount of the expected legacy. Grace, in reply, wept and wondered at the request, bemoaned the inexorableness of the law, and was astonished that Lily had not realised the exact similarity of their positions. Did she think that only the payment of the legacies had been delayed? Why, Miss Stepney herself had not received a penny of her inheritance, and was paying rent, yes, actually, for the privilege of living in a house that belonged to her. She was sure it was not what poor dear cousin Julia would have wished. She had told the executors so to their faces, but they were inaccessible to reason, and there was nothing to do but to wait. Let Lily take example by her, and be patient. Let them both remember how beautifully patient cousin Julia had always been. Lily made a movement which showed her imperfect assimilation of this example. But you will have everything, Grace. It would be easy for you to borrow ten times the amount I am asking for. Borrow? Easy for me to borrow. Grace Stepney rose up before her in sable wrath. May you imagine for a moment that I would raise money on my expectations from cousin Julia when I know so well her unspeakable horror of every transaction of the sword? Why, Lily, if you must know the truth, it was the idea of your being in debt that brought on her illness. You remember she had a slight attack before you sailed. Oh, I don't know the particulars, of course. I don't want to know them. But there were rumors about your affairs that made her most unhappy. No one could be with her without seeing that. I can't help it if you are offended by my telling you this now. If I can do anything to make you realize the folly of your course and how deeply she disapproved of it, I shall feel it is the truest way of making up to you for her loss.