 The House of Myrth by Edith Wharton. Selden paused and surprised. In the afternoon rush of the Grand Central Station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of Miss Lily Bart. It was a Monday in early September, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dip into the country. But what was Miss Bart doing in town at that season? If she had appeared to be catching a train he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and another of the country houses which disputed her presence after the close of the Newport season. But a desultory air perplexed him. She stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. It struck him at once that she was waiting for someone, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. There was nothing new about Lily Bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest. It was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions. An impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door and stroll past her. He knew that if she did not wish to be seen she would contrive to elude him, and it amused him to think of putting her skill to the test. Mr. Selden, what good luck! She came forward, smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him. One or two persons, and brushing past them, lingered to look, for Miss Bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his last train. Selden had never seen her more radiant. Her vivid head, relieved against the dull tents of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a ballroom, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tent that she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. Was it really eleven years? Selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her. What luck! she repeated, how nice of you to come to my rescue. He responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked what form the rescue was to take. Oh, almost any, even to sitting on a bench and talking to me. One sits out a cotillion, why not sit out a train? It isn't a bit hotter here than in Mrs. Van Osberg's conservatory, and some of the women are not a bit uglier. She broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from Tuxedo on her way to the Gus Trainers at Bellamont, and had missed the three-fifteen-trained Rhinebeck. And there isn't another till half past five. She consulted the little jeweled watch among her laces. Just two hours to wait. And I don't know what to do with myself. My maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to Bellamont at one o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and I don't know a soul in town. She glanced plentifully about the station. It is hotter than Mrs. Van Osberg's after all. If you could spare the time to take me somewhere for a breath of air. He declared himself entirely at her disposal. The adventure struck him as diverting. As a spectator he had always enjoyed Lily Bart, and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied. Shall we go over to Sherry's for a cup of tea? She smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace. So many people come up to town on a Monday. One is sure to meet a lot of boars. I'm as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make any difference. But if I'm old enough, you're not," she objected gaily. I'm dying for tea. But isn't there a quieter place? He answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. Her discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences. He was so sure that both were part of the same, carefully elaborated plan. In judging Miss Bart he had always made use of the argument from design. The resources of New York are rather meager, he said, but I'll find a handsome first, and then we'll invent something. He led her through the throng of returning holiday-makers, past salo-faced girls in preposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundles and palm leaf fans. Was it possible that she belonged to the same race? The dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood, made him feel how highly specialized she was. A rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshingly over the moist street. How delicious! Let us walk a little," she said as they emerged from the station. They turned into Madison Avenue and began to stroll northward. As she moved beside him with her long light step, Solon was conscious of taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness. In the modeling of her little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair, was it ever so slightly brightened by art, and the thick planting of her straight black lashes. Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external, as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish. And was it not possible that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape? As he reached this point in his speculations, the sun came out, and her lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. A moment or two later, she paused with a sigh. Oh, dear, I'm so hot and thirsty, and what a hideous place New York is. She looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare. Other cities put on their best clothes in summer, but New York seems to sit in its shirt sleeves. Her eyes wandered down one of the side streets. Someone has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. Let us go into the shade. I am glad my street meets with your approval, said Seldon, as they turned the corner. Your street? Do you live here? She glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house fronts, fantastically varied in obedience to the American craving for novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower boxes. Ah, yes, to be sure. The Benedict. What a nice looking building. I don't think I've ever seen it before. She looked across at the flat house with its marble porch and pseudo-Georgian facade. Which are your windows, those with the awnings down? On the top floor, yes. And that nice little balcony is yours. How cool it looks up there. He paused a moment. Come up and see, he suggested. I can give you a cup of tea in no time, and you won't meet any boars. Her color deepened. She still had the art of blushing at the right time. But she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made. Why not? It's too tempting. I'll take the risk, she declared. Oh, I'm not dangerous, he said, in the same key. In truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment. He knew she had accepted without afterthought. He could never be a factor in her calculations. And there was a surprise, a refreshment almost in the spontaneity of her consent. On the threshold, he paused a moment, feeling for his latch-key. There's no one here, but I have a servant who is supposed to come in the mornings, and it's just possible he may have put out the tea things and provided some cake. He ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. She noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks. Then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its walls of books, a pleasantly faded turkey rug, a littered dust and, as he had foretold, a tea tray on a low table near the window. A breeze had sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent of mignon knit and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony. Lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs. How delicious to have a place like this all to oneself! What a miserable thing it is to be a woman! She leaned back in a luxury of discontent. Seldon was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake. Even women, he said, have been known to enjoy the privileges of a flat. Oh, governesses, or widows, but not girls, not poor, miserable, marriageable girls. I even know a girl who lives in a flat. She sat up in surprise. You do? I do, he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with a sought for cake. Oh, I know. You mean, Gertie Farish. She smiled a little unkindly. But I said, marriageable. And besides, she has a horrid little place and no maid and such queer things to eat. Her cook does the washing and the food tastes of soap. I should hate that, you know. You shouldn't dine with her on wash days, said Seldon, cutting the cake. They both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little teapot of green glaze. As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin Gertrude Farish had chosen. She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her that the lengths of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate. She seemed to read his thought. It was horrid of me to say that, of Gertie, she said, with charming compunction. I forgot she was your cousin. But we're so different, you know. She likes being good, and I like being happy. And besides, she's free, and I am not. If I were, I daresay I could manage to be happy, even in her flat. It must be pure bliss to arrange the furniture, just as one likes, and give all the horrors to the Ashman. If I could only do over my aunt's drawing-room, I know I should be a better woman. Is it so very bad? he asked, sympathetically. She smiled at him across the teapot, which she was holding up to be filled. That shows how seldom you come there. Why don't you come oftener? When I do come, it's not to look at Mrs. Peniston's furniture. Nonsense, she said. You don't come at all, and yet we get on so well when we meet. Perhaps that's the reason, he answered promptly. I'm afraid I haven't any cream, you know. Shall you mind a slice of lemon instead? I shall like it better. She waited while he cut the lemon, and dropped a thin disc into her cup. But that is not the reason, she insisted. The reason for what? For you're never coming. She leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in her charming eyes. I wish I knew. I wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who don't like me. One can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me. They think I want to marry them. She smiled up at him frankly. But I don't think you dislike me. And you can't possibly think I want to marry you. No, I absolve you of that, he agreed. Well, then. He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece, and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. The provocation in her eyes increased his amusement. He had not supposed. She would waste her powder on such small game. But perhaps she was only keeping her hand in. Or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation, but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea, and must live up to his obligations. Well, then, he said, with a plunge. Perhaps that's the reason. What? The fact that you don't want to marry me. Perhaps I don't regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you. He felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this. But her laugh reassured him. Ah! Dear Mr. Sultan, that wasn't worthy of you. It's stupid of you to make love to me, and it isn't like you to be stupid. She leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her aunt's drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction. Don't you see, she continued, that there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who won't be afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have fancied you might be that friend. I don't know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldn't have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you. Her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child. You don't know how much I need such a friend, she said. My aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with usual sleeves, and the other women, my best friends, well, they use me or abuse me, but they don't care a straw what happens to me. I've been about too long. People are getting tired of me. They are beginning to say, I ought to marry. There was a moment's pause, during which Seldon meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation, but he rejected them in favor of the simple question. Well, why don't you? She colored and laughed. Ah, I see you are a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for. It wasn't meant to be disagreeable, he returned amicably. Isn't marriage your vocation? Isn't it what you're all brought up for? She sighed. I suppose so. What else is there? Exactly, and so why not take the plunge and have it over? She shrugged her shoulders. You speak as if I ought to marry the first man who came along. I didn't mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that, but there must be someone with the requisite qualifications. She shook her head, wearily. I threw away one or two good chances when I first came out. I suppose every girl does, and you know I am horribly poor and very expensive. I must have a great deal of money. One had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece. What's become of Dilworth? he asked. Oh, his mother was frightened. She was afraid I should have all the family jewels reset, and she wanted me to promise that I wouldn't do over the drawing-room. The very thing you were marrying for her. Exactly, so she packed him off to India. Hard luck, but you can do better than Dilworth. He offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case attached to her long pearl chain. Have I time? Just a width, then. She leaned forward, holding the tip of her cigarette to his. As she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal enjoyment how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids, and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallor of the cheek. She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tents of good tooling and old Morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities. Suddenly her expression changed from dussel-turi enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to Saldan with a question. You collect, don't you? You know about first editions and things. As much as a man may who has no money to spend, now and then I pick up something in the rubbish heap and I go and look on at the big sails. She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea. And Americana, do you collect Americana? Saldan stared and laughed. No, that's rather out of my line. I'm not really a collector, you see. I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of. She made a slight grimace. And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose. I should fancy so, except to the historian, but your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I don't suppose the buyers of Americana set up reading them all night. Old Jefferson Grice certainly didn't. She was listening with keen attention. And yet they fetch fabulous prices, don't they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly, badly printed book that one is never going to read. And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians, either. No, very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector. He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Grice collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume? It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing. And as she replaced his first edition of Labrouillet and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him with a smile, which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed. Don't you ever mind, she asked suddenly, not being rich enough to buy all the books you want? He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls. Don't I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar? And having to work, do you mind that? Oh, the work itself is not so bad. I'm rather fond of the law. No, but the being tied down, the routine, don't you ever want to get away to see new places and people? Horribly, especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer. She drew a sympathetic breath. But do you mind enough to marry to get out of it? Selden broke into a laugh. God forbid, he declared. She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate. Ah, there's the difference. A girl must, a man may, if he chooses. She surveyed him critically. Your coat's a little shabby, but who cares? It doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby, no one would have me. A woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like. They don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dengy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well dressed till we drop, and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership. Selden glanced at her with amusement. It was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case. Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the lookout for such an investment. Perhaps you'll meet your fate tonight at the trainers. She returned his look interrogatively. I thought you might be going there. Oh, not in that capacity. But there are to be a lot of your set. Gwen Van Osberg, the weather-alls, Lady Cressida, Wraith, and the George Dorsons. She paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes, but he remained impeturbable. Mrs. Trainor asked me, but I can't get away till the end of the week, and those big parties bore me. Ah, and so they do me, she exclaimed. Then why go? It's part of the business. You forget. And besides, if I didn't, I should be playing bézique with my aunt at Richfield Springs. That's almost as bad as marrying Dilworth, he agreed, and they both laughed, for pure pleasure and their sudden intimacy. She glanced at the clock. Dear me, I must be off. It's after five. She paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror, while she adjusted her veil. The attitude revealed the long slope of her slender sides, which gave a kind of wild wood grace to her outline, as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawing-room. And Seldon reflected that it was the same streak of Sylvan freedom in her nature that lent such savor to her artificiality. He followed her across the room to the entrance hall, but on the threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking. It's been delightful, and now you will have to return my visit. But don't you want me to see you to the station? No. Goodbye here, please." She let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him, adorably. "'Goodbye, then. And good luck at Bellamond,' he said, opening the door for her. On the landing she paused to look about her. There were a thousand chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and she was always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. There was no one in sight, however, but a char woman who was scrubbing the stairs. Her own stout person and its surrounding implements took up so much room that Lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and brush against the wall. She did so the woman paused in her work and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pale. She had a broad, sallow face, slightly pitted with small hawks and thin, straw-colored hair through which her scalp shone unpleasantly. "'I beg your pardon,' said Lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the other's manner. The woman, without answering, pushed her pale aside and continued to stare as Miss Bart swept by with a murmur of soak-in linings. Lily felt herself flushing under the look. What did the creature suppose? Could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing without subjecting oneself to some odious conjecture? Halfway down the next flight she smiled to think that a char woman's stare should so perturb her. The poor thing was probably dazzled by such an unwanted apparition. But were such apparitions unwanted on seldom stares? Miss Bart was not familiar with the moral code of Bachelors flat houses, and her color rose again as it occurred to her that the woman's persistent gaze implied a groping among past associations. But she put aside the thought with a smile at her own fears and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short of Fifth Avenue. Under the Georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a handsome. None was in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran against a small, glossy-looking man with a gardenia in his coat, who raised his hat with a surprise exclamation. Miss Bart? Well, of all people, this is luck, he declared, and she caught a twinkle of amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids. Oh, Mr. Rosdale, how are you? she said, perceiving that the irrepressible annoyance on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy of his smile. Mr. Rosdale stood scanning her with interest and approval. He was a plump, rosy man of the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes fitting him like upholstery and small side-lung eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were brick-a-brack. He glanced up interrogatively at the porch of the benedict. Been up to town for a little shopping, I suppose, he said, in a tone which had the familiarity of a touch. Miss Bart shrank from it slightly and then flung herself into precipitant explanations. Yes, I came to see my dressmaker. I am just on my way to catch the train to the train-hers. Ah, your dressmaker. Just so, he said, blandly. I didn't know there were any dressmakers in the benedict. The benedict, she looked, gently puzzled. Is that the name of this building? Yes, that's the name. I believe it's an old word for bachelor, isn't it? I happen to own the building. That's the way I know. His smile deepened as he added with increasing assurance, but you must let me take you to the station. The train-hers are at Bellamont, of course. You've barely time to catch the 540. The dressmaker kept you waiting, I suppose. Lily stiffened under the pleasantry. Oh, thanks! She stammered, and at that moment her eye caught a handsome, drifting, down Madison Avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture. You're very kind, but I couldn't think of troubling you, she said, sending her hand to Mr. Rosedale, and heedless of his protest stations, she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and called out a breathless order to the driver. Book 1 Chapter 2 of The House of Merth by Edith Wharton In the handsome she leaned back with a sigh. Why must a girl pay so dearly for her least escape from routine? Why could one never do a natural thing without having to screen it behind a structure of artifice? She had yielded to a passing impulse in going to Lawrence Seldon's rooms, and it was so seldom that she could allow herself the luxury of an impulse. This one, at any rate, was going to cost her rather more than she could afford. She was vexed to see that, in spite of so many years of vigilance, she had blundered twice within five minutes. That stupid story about her dressmaker was bad enough, it would have been so simple to tell Rosedale that she had been taking tea with Seldon. The mere statement of the fact would have rendered it innocuous, but after having let herself be surprised in a falsehood, it was doubly stupid to snub the witness of her discomforture. If she had had the presence of mind to let Rosedale drive her to the station, the concession might have purchased his silence. He had his race's accuracy in the appraisal of values, and to be seen walking down the platform at the crowded afternoon hour in the company of Miss Lily Bart would have been money in his pocket, as he might himself have phrased it. He knew, of course, that there would be a large house-party at Belamond, and the possibility of being taken for one of Miss's trainer's guests was doubtless included in his calculations. Mr. Rosedale was still at a stage in his social ascent when it was of importance to produce such impressions. The provoking part was that Lily knew all of this, knew how easy it would have been to silence him on the spot, and how difficult it might be to do so afterward. Mr. Simon Rosedale was a man who made it his business to know everything about everyone, whose idea of showing himself to be at home in society was to display an inconvenient familiarity with the habits of those with whom he wished to be thought intimate. Lily was sure that within twenty-four hours the story of her visiting her dressmaker at the Benedict would be an act of circulation among Mr. Rosedale's acquaintances. The worst of it was that she had always snubbed and ignored him. On his first appearance, when her improvident cousin, Jack Stephanie, had obtained him, in return for favors to easily cast, a card to one of the vast impersonal Van Osberg crushes. Rosedale, with that mixture of artistic sensibility and business astuteness which characterizes his race, had instantly gravitated toward Miss Bart. She understood his motives, for her own course was guided by as nice calculations. Training and experience had taught her to be hospitable to newcomers, since the most unpromising might be useful later on, and there were plenty of available obliets to swallow them, if they were not. But some intuitive repugnance getting the better of years of social discipline had made her push Mr. Rosedale into his obliet without a trial. He had left behind only the ripple of amusement which his speedy dispatch had caused among her friends, and though later, to shift the metaphor, he reappeared lower down the stream it was only in fleeting glimpses with long submergences between. Hitherto Lily had been undisturbed by scruples, and her little-sut Mr. Rosedale had been pronounced impossible, and Jack Stephanie roundly snubbed for his attempt to pay his debts and dinner invitations. Even Mrs. Treanor, whose taste for variety had led her into some hazardous experiments, resisted Jack's attempts to disguise Mr. Rosedale as a novelty, and declared that he was the same little Jew who had been served up and rejected at the social board a dozen times within her memory, and while Judy Treanor was up to it, there was small chance of Rosedale's penetrating beyond the outer limbo of the Van Osberg crushes. Jack gave up the contest with a laughing, you'll see, and sticking manfully to his guns showed himself with Rosedale at the fashionable restaurants, in company with the personally vivid, if socially obscure ladies, were available for such purposes. But the attempt had hitherto been vain, and as Rosedale undoubtedly paid for the dinners, the laugh remained with his debtor. Mr. Rosedale, it will be seen, was thus far not a factor to be feared, unless one put oneself in his power, and this was precisely what Miss Bart had done. Her clumsy fib had let him see that she had something to conceal, and she was sure he had a score to settle with her. Something in his smile told her he had not forgotten. She turned from the thought with a little shiver, but it hung on her all the way to the station, and dogged her down the platform with the persistency of Mr. Rosedale himself. She had just time to take her seat before the train started, but having arranged herself in the corner with the instinctive feeling for effect which never forsook her. She glanced about in the hope of seeing some other member of the trainer's party. She wanted to get away from herself, and conversation was the only means of escape that she knew. Her search was rewarded by the discovery of a very blond young man with a soft, reddish beard, who, at the other end of the carriage, appeared to be dissembling himself behind an unfolded newspaper. Lily's eye brightened, and a faint smile relaxed the drawn lines of her mouth. She had known that Mr. Percy Grice was to be at Bellamont, but she had not counted on the luck of having him to herself and the train, and the fact banished all perturbing thoughts of Mr. Rosedale. Perhaps after all the day was to end more favorably than it had begun. She began to cut the pages of a novel, tranquilly studying her prey through downcast lashes while she organized a method of attack. Something in his attitude of conscious absorption told her that he was aware of her presence. No one had ever been quite so engrossed in an evening paper. She guessed that he was too shy to come up to her, and that she would have to devise some means of approach which should not appear to be an advance on her part. It amused her to think that anyone as rich as Mr. Percy Grice should be shy, but she was gifted with treasures of indulgence for such idiosyncrasies, and besides, his timidity might serve her purpose better than too much assurance. She had the art of giving self-confidence to the embarrassed, but she was not equally sure of being able to embarrass the self-confident. She waited till the train had emerged from the tunnel and was racing between the ragged edges of the northern suburbs. Then, as it lowered its speed near Yonkers, she rose from her seat and drifted slowly down the carriage. As she passed Mr. Grice, the train gave a lurch, and he was aware of a slender hand gripping the back of his chair. He rose with a start, his ingenuous face looking as though it had been dipped in crimson. Even the reddish tent and his beard seemed to deepen. The train swayed again, almost flinging Miss Bart into his arms. She steadied herself with a laugh and drew back, but he was enveloped in the scent of her dress, and his shoulder had felt her fugitive touch. Oh, Mr. Grice, is it you? I'm so sorry. I was trying to find the porter and get some tea. She held out her hand as the train resumed its level rush, and they stood exchanging a few words in the aisle. Yes, he was going to Belamond. He had heard that she was to be one of the party. He blushed again as he admitted it, and was he to be there for a whole week. How delightful! But at this point one or two belated passengers from the last station forced their way into the carriage, and Lily had to retreat to her seat. The chair next to mine is empty. Do take it, she said over her shoulder, and Mr. Grice, with considerable embarrassment, succeeded in affecting an exchange which enabled him to transport himself and his backs to her side. Ah, and here is the porter, and perhaps we can have some tea. She signaled to that official, and in a moment with the ease that seemed to attend the fulfillment of all her wishes a little table had been set up between the seats, and she had helped Mr. Grice to bestow his encumbering properties beneath it. When the tea came he watched her in silent fascination, while her hands flitted above the tray, looking miraculously fine and slender, in contrast to the coarse china and lumpy bread. It seemed wonderful to him that anyone should perform with such careless ease the difficult task of making tea in public in an lurching train. He would never have dared to order it for himself, lest he should attract the notice of his fellow passengers. But, secure in the shoulder of her conspicuousness, he sipped the inky draught with a delicious sense of exhilaration. Lily, with the flavor of Seldon's caravan tea on her lips, had no great fancy to drown it in the railway brew which seemed such nectar to her companion. But, rightly judging that one of the charms of tea is the fact of drinking it together, she proceeded to give the last touch to Mr. Grice's enjoyment by smiling at him across her lifted cup. "'It is quite right. I haven't made it too strong,' she asked solicitously, and he replied with conviction that he had never tasted better tea. I daresay it is true,' she reflected, and her imagination was fired by the thought that Mr. Grice, who might have sounded the depths of the most complex self-indulgence, was perhaps actually taking his first journey alone with a pretty woman. It struck her as providential that she should be the instrument of his initiation. Some girls would not have known how to manage him. They would have overemphasized the novelty of the adventure, trying to make him feel it in the zest of an escapade. But Lily's methods were more delicate. She remembered that her cousin Jack Stepney had once defined Mr. Grice as the young man who had promised his mother never to go out in the rain without his overshoes, and acting on this hint she resolved to impart a gently domestic error to the scene. In the hope that her companion, instead of feeling that he was doing something reckless or unusual, would merely be led to dwell on the advantage of always having a companion to make one's tea in the train. But in spite of her efforts, conversation flagged after the tray had been removed, and she was driven to take a fresh measurement of Mr. Grice's limitations. It was not, after all, opportunity but imagination that he lacked. He had a mental palette which would never learn to distinguish between railway tea and nectar. There was, however, one topic she could rely on. One spring that she had only to touch to set his simple machinery in motion. She had refrained from touching it, because it was a last resource, and she had relied on other arts to stimulate other sensations. But as a subtle look of dullness began to creep over his candid features, she saw that extreme measures were necessary. And how, she said, leaning forward, are you getting on with your Americana? His eye became a degree less opaque. It was as though an incipient film had been removed from it. And she felt the pride of a skillful operator. I've got a few nice things, he said, suffused with pleasure, but lowering his voice as though he feared his fellow passengers might be in league to dispoil him. She returned a sympathetic inquiry, and gradually he was drawn on to talk of his latest purchases. It was the one subject which enabled him to forget himself, or allowed him, rather, to remember himself without constraint, because he was at home in it, and could assert a superiority that there were few to dispute. Hardly any of his acquaintances cared for Americana, or knew anything about them, and the consciousness of this ignorance threw Mr. Grice's knowledge into agreeable relief. The only difficulty was to introduce the topic, and to keep it to the front. Most people showed no desire to have their ignorance dispelled, and Mr. Grice was like a merchant whose warehouses are crammed with an unmarketable commodity. But Miss Bart, it appeared, really did want to know about Americana, and moreover, she was already sufficiently informed to make the task of farther instruction as easy as it was agreeable. She questioned him intelligently, she heard him submissively, and prepared for the look of lassitude, which usually crept over his listener's faces he grew eloquent under her receptive gaze. The points she had had the presence of mind to glean from seldom in anticipation of this very contingency were serving her to such good purpose that she began to think her visit to him had been the luckiest incident of the day. She had once more shown her talent for profiting by the unexpected, and dangerous theories as to the advisability of yielding to impulse were germinating under the surface of smiling attention which she continued to present to her companion. Mr. Grice's sensations, if less definite, were equally agreeable. He felt the confused titillation with which the lower organisms welcomed the gratification of their needs, and all his senses floundered in a vague well-being through which Miss Bart's personality was dimly but pleasantly perceptible. Mr. Grice's interest in Americana had not originated with himself. It was impossible to think of him as evolving any taste of his own. An uncle had left him a collection already noted among bibliophiles. The existence of the collection was the only fact that had ever shed glory on the name of Grice, and the nephew took as much pride in his inheritance as though it had been his own work. Indeed, he gradually came to regard it as such, and to feel a sense of personal complacency when he chanced on any reference to the Grice Americana. Anxious as he was to avoid personal notice he took in the printed mention of his name a pleasure so exquisite and excessive that it seemed a compensation for his shrinking from publicity. To enjoy the sensation as often as possible he subscribed to all the reviews dealing with book collecting in general, and American history in particular, and as allusions to his library abounded in the pages of these journals which formed his only reading, he came to regard himself as figuring prominently in the public eye, and to enjoy the thought of the interest which would be excited if the persons he met in the street, or sat among in traveling, were suddenly to be told that he was the possessor of the Grice Americana. Most timidities have such secret compensations, and Miss Bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self-depreciation. With a more confident person she would have not dared to dwell so long on one topic, or to show such exaggerated interest in it, but she had rightly guessed that Mr. Grice's egoism was a thirsty soil requiring constant nurture from without. Miss Bart had the gift of following an undercurrent of thought while she appeared to be sailing on the surface of conversation, and in this case her mental excursion took the form of a rapid survey of Mr. Percy Grice's future as combined with her own. The Grices were from Albany, but lately introduced to the Metropolis, where the mother and son had come, after old Jefferson Grice's death to take possession of his house in Madison Avenue, and a pawling house all brownstone without and black walnut within, with the Grice library and a fireproof annex that looked like a mausoleum. Lily, however, knew all about them. Young Mr. Grice's arrival had fluttered the maternal breasts of New York, and when a girl has no mother to palpitate for her she must needs to be on the alert for herself. Lily, therefore, had not only contrived to put herself in the young man's way, but had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Grice a monumental woman, with the voice of a pulpit orator, and a mind preoccupied with the iniquities of her servants, who came sometimes to sit with Mrs. Peniston and learn from that lady how she managed to prevent the kitchen-made smuggling groceries out of the house. Mrs. Grice had a kind of impersonal benevolence. Cases of individual need she regarded with suspicion, but she subscribed to institutions when their annual reports showed an impressive surplus. Her domestic duties were manifold, for they extended from furtive inspections of the servants' bedrooms to unannounced descents to the cellar, but she had never allowed herself many pleasures. Once, however, she had had a special edition of the Serum Rule printed in rubric and presented to every clergyman in the diocese, and the gilt album in which their letters of thanks were pasted formed the chief ornament of her drum-room table. Percy had been brought up in principles which so excellent a woman was sure to inculcate. Every form of prudence and suspicion had been grafted on a nature originally reluctant and cautious, with the result that it would have seemed hardly needful of Mrs. Grice to extract his promise about the overshoes so little likely was he to hazard himself abroad in the rain. After attaining his majority and coming into the fortune which the late Mr. Grice had made out of a patent device for excluding fresh air from hotels, the young man continued to live with his mother in Albany. But on Jefferson Grice's death, when another large property passed into her son's hands, Mrs. Grice thought that what she called his interests demanded his presence in New York. She accordingly installed herself in the Madison Avenue house, and Percy, whose sense of duty was not inferior to his mother's, spent all his weekdays in the handsome Broad Street office where a batch of pale men on small salaries had grown gray in the management of the Grice estate, and where he was initiated with becoming reverence into every detail of the art of accumulation. As far as Lily could learn this had hitherto been Mr. Grice's only occupation, and she might have been pardoned for thinking it not too hard a task to interest the young man who had been kept on such a low diet. At any rate she felt herself so completely in command of the situation that she yielded to a sense of security in which all fear of Mr. Rosdale and of the difficulties on which that fear was contingent vanished beyond the edge of thought. The stopping of the train at Garrison's would not have distracted her from these thoughts had she not caught a sudden look of distress in her companion's eye. His seat faced the door, and she guessed that he had been perturbed by the approach of an acquaintance, a fact confirmed by the turning of heads and general sense of commotion which her own entrance into a railway carriage was apt to produce. She knew the symptoms at once, and was not surprised to be held by the high notes of a pretty woman who entered the train accompanied by a maid, a bull terrier, and a footman, staggering under a load of bags and dressing cases. "'Oh, Lily, are you going to Bellamont? Then you can't let me have your seat, I suppose. But I must have a seat in this carriage. Porter, you must find me a place at once. Can't someone be put somewhere else? I want to be with my friends. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Grice? Do please make him understand that I must have a seat next to you and Lily.' Mrs. George Dorsett, regardless of the mild efforts of a traveller with a carpet-bag, who was doing his best to make room for her by getting out of the train, stood in the middle of the aisle, diffusing about her that general sense of exasperation which a pretty woman on her travels not infrequently creates. She was smaller and thinner than Lily Bart, with a restless pliability of pose, as if she could have been crumpled up and run through a ring like the senuous draperies she affected. Her small pale face seemed the mere setting of a pair of dark, exaggerated eyes, of which the visionary gaze contrasted curiously with her self-assertive tone and gestures, so that, as one of her friends observed, she was like a disembodied spirit who took up a great deal of room. Having finally discovered that the seat adjoining Miss Bart's was at her disposal, she possessed herself of it with a farther displacement of her surroundings, explaining meanwhile that she had come across from Mount Kisco in her motor-car that morning, and had been kicking her heels for an hour at garrisons, without even the alleviation of a cigarette, her brute of a husband having neglected to replenish her case before they parted that morning. And at this hour of the day I don't suppose you have a single one left, have you, Lily?" she plaintively concluded. Miss Bart caught the startled glance of Mr. Percy Grice, whose own lips were never defiled by Tobacco. "'What an absurd question, Bertha,' she exclaimed, blushing at the thought of the store she had laid in at Lawrence Suldins. "'Why, don't you smoke? Since when have you given it up? What? You never—and you don't either, Mr. Grice? Ah, of course! How stupid of me! I understand!' And Mrs. Dorsett leaned back against her traveling cushions with a smile which made Lily wish there had been no vacant seat beside her own. End of Book I, CHAPTER II Bridget Bellamont usually lasted till the small hours, and when Lily went to bed that night she had played too long for her own good. Feeling no desire for the self-communion which awaited her in her room, she lingered on the broad stairway, looking down into the hall below, where the last card players were grouped about the tray of tall glasses and silver-collar decanters which the butler had just placed on a low table near the fire. The hall was arcaded, with the galleries supported on columns of pale yellow marble. Tall clumps of flowering plants were grouped against a background of dark foliage in the angles of the walls. On the crimson carpet a deer hound and two or three spaniels dozed luxuriously before the fire, and the light from the great central lantern overhead shed a brightness on the women's hair and struck sparks from their jewels as they moved. There were moments when such scenes delighted Lily when they gratified her sense of beauty and her craving for the external finish of life. There were others when they gave a sharper edge to the meagerness of her own opportunities. This was one of the moments when the sense of contrast was uppermost, and she turned away impatiently as Mrs. George Dorsett, glittering in serpentine spangles, drew Percy Christ in her wake to a confidential nook beneath the gallery. It was not that Miss Bart was afraid of losing her newly acquired hold over Mr. Grice. Mrs. Dorsett might startle or dazzle him, but she had neither the skill nor the patience to affect his capture. She was too self-engrossed to penetrate the recesses of his shyness, and besides why should she care to give herself the trouble? At most it might amuse her to make sport of his simplicity for an evening. After that he would be merely a burden to her. And knowing this she was far too experienced to encourage him. But the mere thought of that other woman who could take a man up and toss him aside as she willed without having to regard him as a possible factor in her plans filled Lily Bart with envy. She had been bored all the afternoon by Percy Christ. The mere thought seemed to waken an echo of his droning voice, but she could not ignore him on the morrow. She must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptabilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her for life. It was a hateful fate. But how escaped from it? What choice had she? To be herself, or a dirty ferrish. As she entered her bedroom, with its softly shaded lights, her laced dressing-gown lying across the soaking bedspread, her little embroidered slippers before the fire, a vase of carnations filling the air with perfume, and the last novels and magazines lying uncut on a table beside the reading-lamp, she had a vision of misferishes cramped flat with its cheap conveniences and hideous wallpapers. No, she was not made for mean and shabby surroundings, for the squalid compromises of poverty, her whole being dilated in an atmosphere of luxury. It was the background she required. The only climate she could breathe in. But the luxury of others was not what she wanted. A few years ago it had sufficed her. She had taken her daily mead of pleasure without caring who provided it. Now she was beginning to chafe at the obligations it imposed, to feel herself a mere pensioner on the splendor which had once seemed to belong to her. There were even moments when she was conscious of having to pay her way. For a long time she had refused to play bridge. She knew she could not afford it, and she was afraid of acquiring so expensive a taste. She had seen the danger exemplified in more than one of her associates. In young Ned Silverton, for instance, the charming fair boy now seated in abject rapture at the elbow of Mrs. Fisher, a striking divorcee, with eyes and gowns as empathetic as the headlines of her case. Lily could remember when young Silverton had stumbled and heard their circle, with the air of a strayed Arcadian who has published Chamung Sonets in his college journal. Since then he had developed a taste for Mrs. Fisher and Bridge, and the latter at least had involved him in expenses from which he had been more than once rescued by harassed maiden sisters who treasured the Sonets and went without sugar in their tea, to keep their darling afloat. Ned's case was familiar to Lily. She had seen his charming eyes, which had a good deal more poetry in them than the Sonets. Changed from surprise to amusement, and from amusement to anxiety as he passed under the spell of the terrible God of Chance, and she was afraid of discovering the same symptoms in her own case. For in the last year she had found that her hostesses expected her to take a place at the card table. It was one of the taxes she had to pay for their prolonged hospitality, and for the dresses and trinkets which occasionally replenished her insufficient wardrobe. And since she had played regularly the passion had grown on her. Once or twice of late she had won a large sum, and instead of keeping it against future losses had spent it in dress or jewelry, and the desire to attend for this imprudence, combined with the increasing exhilaration of the game, drove her to risk higher stakes at each fresh venture. She tried to excuse herself on the plea that, in the Trenor set, if one played it all one must either play high or be set down as Triggish or Stenji, but she knew that the gambling passion was upon her, and that in her present surroundings there was small hope of resisting it. Tonight the luck had been persistently bad, and the little gold purse which hung among her trinkets was almost empty when she returned to her room. She unlocked the wardrobe and taking up her jewel case looked under the tray for the roll of bills from which she had replenished the purse before going down to dinner. Only twenty dollars were left. The discovery was so startling that for a moment she fancied she must have been robbed. Then she took paper and pencil, and seating herself at the writing table, tried to reckon up what she had spent during the day. Her head was throbbing with fatigue, and she had to go over the figures again and again, but at last it became clear to her that she had lost three hundred dollars at cards. She took out her checkbook to see if her balance was larger than she remembered, but found she had erred in the other direction. Then she returned to her calculations, but figure as she would she could not conjure back the vanished three hundred dollars. It was the sum she had set aside to pacify her dressmaker, unless she should decide to use it as a stop to the jeweler. At any rate she had so many uses for it that its very insufficiency had cost her to play high in the hope of doubling it. But of course she had lost. She who needed every penny, while Bertha Dorset, whose husband showered money on her, must have pocketed at least five hundred, and Judy Trenner, who could have afforded to lose a thousand a night, had left the table clutching such a heap of bills that she had been unable to shake hands with her guests when they bid her good night. A world in which such things could be seemed a miserable place to lily-bart, but then she had never been able to understand the laws of a universe which was so ready to leave her out of its calculations. She began to undress without ringing for her maid whom she had sent to bed. She had been long enough in bondage to other people's pleasure to be considerate of those who depended on hers, and in her bitter moods it sometimes struck her that she and her maid were in the same position except that the latter received her wages more regularly. As she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, her face looked hollow and pale, and she was frightened by two little lines near her mouth, faint flaws in the smooth curve of the cheek. "'Oh, I must stop worrying,' she exclaimed, "'unless it's the electric light,' she reflected, springing up from her seat and lighting the candles on the dressing table. She turned out the wall lights and peered at herself between the candle-flames. The white oval of her face swam out waveringly from a background of shadows, the uncertain light blurring it like a haze, but the two lines about the mouth remained. Lily rose and undressed in haste. "'It is only because I am tired and have such odious things to think about,' she kept repeating, and it seemed an added injustice that petty-care should leave a trace on the beauty which was her only defense against them. But the odious things were there, and remained with her. She returned warily to the thought of Percy Grice as a wafer picks up a heavy load and tolls on after a brief rest. She was almost sure she had landed him. A few days' work, and she would win her reward. But the reward itself seemed unpalatable, just then. She could get no zest from the thought of victory. It would be a rest from worry no more, and how little that would have seemed to her a few years earlier her ambitions had shrunk gradually in the desiccating air of failure. But why had she failed? Was it her own fault or that of destiny? She remembered how her mother, after they had lost their money, used to say to her with a kind of fierce vindictiveness, but you'll get it all back, you'll get it all back with your face. The remembrance roused a whole train of association, and she lay in the darkness reconstructing the past out of which her present had grown. A house in which no one ever dined at home unless there was company. A doorbell perpetually ringing, a hall-table showered with square envelopes which were opened in haste, and oblong envelopes which were allowed to gather dust in the depths of a bronze jar. A series of French and English maids giving warning amid a chaos of hurriedly ransacked wardrobes and dress-closets, and equally changing dynasty of nurses and footmen, quarrels in the pantry, the kitchen and the drawing-room, precipitate trips to Europe, and returns with gorge trunks and days of interminable unpacking, semi-annual discussions as to where the summer should be spent, gray interludes of economy, and brilliant reactions of expense. Such was the setting of Lillibart's first memories. Opening the turbulent element called home was the vigorous and determined figure of a mother still young enough to dance, her bald dresses to rags, while the hazy outline of a neutral-tinted father filled an intermediate space between the butler and the man who came to wind the clocks. Even to the eyes of infancy Mrs. Hudson Bart had appeared young, but Lily could not recall the time when her father had not been bald and slightly stooping, with streaks of gray in his hair, and a tired walk. It was a shock to her to learn afterward that he was but two years older than her mother. Lily's solemn saw her father by daylight. All day he was downtown, and in winter it was long after nightfall when she heard his fagged step on the stairs and his hand on the schoolroom door. He would kiss her in silence and ask one or two questions of the nurse or the governess. Then Mrs. Bart's maid would come to remind him that he was dining out, and he would hurry away with a nod to Lily. In summer, when he joined them for a Sunday at Newport or Southampton, he was even more effaced and silent than in winter. It seemed to tire him to rest, and he would sit for hours staring at the sea-line from a quiet corner of the veranda, while the clatter of his wife's existence went on unheeded a few feet off. Generally, however, Mrs. Bart and Lily went to Europe for the summer, and before the steamer was halfway over, Mr. Bart had dipped below the horizon. Sometimes his daughter heard him denounce for having neglected to forward Mrs. Bart's remittances, but for the most part he was never mentioned or thought of till his patient stooping figure presented itself on the New York dock as a buffer between the magnitude of his wife's luggage and the restrictions of the American custom-house. In this dussel-tory, yet agitated fashion, life went on through Lily's teens a zig-zag broken course down which the family-craft glided on a rapid current of amusement, tugged at by the underflow of a perpetual need, the need of more money. Lily could not recall the time when there had been money enough, and in some vague way her father seemed always to blame for the deficiency. It could certainly not be the fault of Mrs. Bart, who was spoken of by her friends as a wonderful manager. Mrs. Bart was famous for the unlimited effect she produced unlimited means, and to the lady and her acquaintances there was something heroic in living as though one were much richer than one's bank-book denoted. Lily was naturally proud of her mother's aptitude in this line. She had been brought up in the faith that whatever it cost one must have a good cook, and be what Mrs. Bart called decently dressed. Mrs. Bart's worst reproach to her husband was to ask him if he expected her to live like a pig, and his replying in the negative was always regarded as a justification for cabling to Paris for an extra dress or two, and telephoning to the jeweler that he might, after all, send home the turquoise bracelet which Mrs. Bart had looked at that morning. Lily knew people who lived like pigs, and their appearance and surroundings justified her mother's repugnance to that form of existence. They were mostly cousins who inhabited dingy houses with engravings from coal's voyage of life on the drawing-room walls, and slateringly parlor maids who said, I'll go and see, to visitors calling at an hour when all right-minded persons are conventionally, if not actually, out. The disgusting part of it was that many of these cousins were rich, so that Lily imbibed the idea that if people lived like pigs it was from choice, and through the lack of any proper standard of conduct. This gave her a sense of reflected superiority, and she did not need Mrs. Bart's comments on the family frumps and misers to foster her naturally lively taste for splendor. Lily was nineteen when circumstances caused her to revise her view of the universe. The previous year she had made a dazzling debut, fringed by a heavy, thunder-cloud of bills. The light of the debut still lingered on the horizon, but the cloud had thickened and suddenly it broke. The suddenness added to the horror, and there were still times when Lily relived, with painful vividness, every detail of the day on which the blow fell. She and her mother had been seated at the luncheon table, over the chauffeur, and cold salmon of the previous night's dinner. It was one of Mrs. Bart's few economies to consume in private the expensive remnants of her hospitality. Lily was feeling the pleasant languor which is youth's penalty for dancing till dawn, but her mother, in spite of a few lines about the mouth and under the yellow waves on her temples, was as alert, determined, and high in color as if she had risen from an untroubled sleep. In the center of the table, between the melting Miron's glacé and candied cherries, a pyramid of American beauties lifted their vigorous stems. They held their heads as high as Mrs. Bart, but their rose-color had turned to a dissipated purple, and Lily's sense of fitness was disturbed by their reappearance on the luncheon table. I really think, mother," she said reproachfully, we might afford a few fresh flowers for luncheon. Just some Johnquills or Lily's of the valley. Mrs. Bart stared. Her own fastidiousness had its eye fixed on the world, and she did not care how the luncheon table looked when there was no one present at it but the family, but she smiled at her daughter's innocence. Lily's of the valley, she said calmly, cost two dollars a dozen at this season. Lily was not impressed. She knew very little of the value of money. It would not take more than six dozen to fill that bowl, she argued. Six dozen what? asked her father's voice in the doorway. The two women looked up in surprise. Though it was a Saturday, the sight of Mr. Bart at luncheon was an unwanted one. But neither his wife nor his daughter was sufficiently interested to ask an explanation. Mr. Bart dropped into a chair, and sat gazing absently at the fragment of jellied salmon which the butler had placed before him. I was only saying, Lily began, that I hate to see faded flowers at luncheon, and mother says a bunch of Lily's of the valley would not cost more than twelve dollars, meant I tell the florist to send a few every day. She leaned confidently toward her father. He seldom refused her anything, and Mrs. Bart had taught her to plead with him when her own entreaties failed. Mr. Bart sat motionless, his gaze still fixed on the salmon, and his lowered jaw dropped. He looked even paler than usual, and his thin hair lay in untidy streaks on his forehead. Suddenly he looked at his daughter, and laughed. The laugh was so strange that Lily colored under it. She disliked being ridiculed, and her father seemed to see something ridiculous in the request. Perhaps he thought it foolish that she should trouble him about such a trifle. 12 dollars. 12 dollars a day for flowers. Oh, certainly, my dear! Give him an order for twelve hundred! he continued to laugh. Mrs. Bart gave him a quick glance. You needn't wait, Polworth, I will ring for you, she said to the butler. The butler withdrew with an air of silent disapproval, leaving the remains of the chaff-froy on the sideboard. What is the matter, Hudson? Are you ill? said Mrs. Bart severely. She had no tolerance for sins which were not of her own making, and it was odious to her that her husband should make a show of himself before the servants. Are you ill? she repeated. Ill? No, I'm ruined, he said. Lily made a frightened sound, and Mrs. Bart rose to her feet. RUINED! she cried, but, controlling herself instantly, she turned a calm face to Lily. SHUT THE PANTRY DOOR, SHE SAID. Lily obeyed, and when she turned back into the room, her father was sitting with both elbows on the table, the plate of salmon between them, and his head bowed on his hands. Mrs. Bart stood over him with a white face which made her hair unnaturally yellow. She looked at Lily as the latter approached. Her look was terrible, but her voice was modulated to a gasly tearfulness. Your father is not well. He doesn't know what he is saying. It is nothing, but she had better go upstairs and don't talk to the servants, she added. Lily obeyed. She always obeyed when her mother spoke in that voice. She had not been deceived by Mrs. Bart's words. She knew at once that they were ruined, in the dark hours which followed. That awful fact overshadowed even her father's slow and difficult dying. To his wife, he no longer counted. He had become extinct when he ceased to fulfill his purpose, and she sat at his side with the provisional air of a traveller who waits for a belated train to start. Lily's feelings were softer. She pitied him in a frightened, ineffectual way, but the fact that he was, for the most part, unconscious, and that his attention, when she stole into the room, drifted away from her after a moment, made him even more of a stranger than in the nursery days when he had never come home till after dark. She seemed always to have seen him through a blur, first of sleepiness, then of distance, and indifference, and now the fog had thickened till he was almost indistinguishable. If she could have performed any little services for him, or have exchanged with him a few of those affecting words which an extensive perusal of fiction had led her to connect with such occasions, the filial instinct might have stirred in her. But her pity, finding no active expression, remained in a state of spectatorship, overshadowed by her mother's grim, unflagging resentment. Every look and act of Mrs. Bart's seemed to say, you are sorry for him now, but you will feel differently when you see what he has done to us. It was a relief to Lily when her father died. Then along winter set in. There was a little money left, but to Mrs. Bart it seemed worse than nothing, the mere mockery of what she was entitled to. What was the use of living if one had to live like a pig? She sank into a kind of furious apathy, a state of inert anger against fate. Her faculty, for managing, deserted her, or she no longer took sufficient pride in it to exert it. It was well enough to manage when by doing so one could keep one's own carriage, but when one's best contrivance did not conceal the fact that one had to go on foot the effort was no longer worth making. Lily and her mother wandered from place to place, now paying long visits to relations whose housekeeping Mrs. Bart criticized and who deplored the fact that she let Lily breakfast in bed when the girl had no prospects before her, and now vegetating in cheap continental refuges where Mrs. Bart held herself fiercely aloof from the frugal tea-tables of her companions in misfortune. She was especially careful to avoid her old friends and the scenes of her former successes. To be poor seemed to her such a confession of failure that it amounted to disgrace, and she detected a note of condescension in the friendliest advances. Only one thought consoled her, and that was the contemplation of Lily's beauty. She studied it with a kind of passion, as though it were some weapon she had slowly fashioned for her vengeance. It was the last asset in their fortunes, the nucleus around which their life was to be rebuilt. She watched it jealously, as though it were her own property and Lily its mere custodian, and she tried to instill into the latter a sense of the responsibility that such a charge involved. She followed in imagination the career of other beauties pointing out to her daughter what might be a chute through such a gift, and dwelling on the awful warning of those who, in spite of it, had failed to get what they wanted. To Mrs. Bart only stupidity could explain the lamentable denouement of some of her examples. She was not about the inconsistency of charging fate, rather than herself, with her own misfortunes, but she invaded so acrimoniously against love matches that Lily would have fancied her own marriage had been of that nature, had not Mrs. Bart frequently assured her that she had been talked into it, by whom she never made clear. Lily was duly impressed by the magnitude of her opportunities, the denginess of her present life, through and to enchanting relief the existence to which she felt herself entitled. To a less illuminated intelligence Mrs. Bart's counsels might have been dangerous, but Lily understood that beauty is only the raw material of conquest, and that to convert it into success other arts are required. She knew that to betray any sense of superiority was a subtler form of the stupidity her mother denounced, and it did not take her long to learn that a beauty needs more tact than the possessor of an average set of features. Her ambitions were not as crude as Mrs. Bart's. It had been among that lady's grievances that her husband, in the early days before he was too tired, had wasted his evenings in what she vaguely described as reading poetry, and among the effects packed off to auction after his death were a score or two of dengy volumes which had struggled for existence among the boots and medicine bottles of his dressing room shelves. There was in Lily a vein of sentiment, perhaps transmitted from the source, which gave an idealizing touch to her most prosaic purposes. She liked to think of her beauty as a power for good, as giving her the opportunity to attain a position where she should make her influence felt in the vague diffusion of refinement and good taste. She was fond of pictures and flowers and of sentimental fiction, and she could not help thinking that the possession of such tastes ennobled her desire for worldly advantages. She would not indeed have cared to marry a man who was merely rich. She was secretly ashamed of her mother's crude passion for money. Lily's preference would have been for an English nobleman with political ambitions and vast estates, or, for second choice, an Italian prince with a castle in the Apennese and hereditary office in the Vatican. Las Causes had a romantic charm for her, and she liked to picture herself as standing aloof from the vulgar press of the Querenau and sacrificing her pleasure to the claims of an immemorial tradition. How long ago and how far off it all seemed, those ambitions were hardly more futile and childish than the earlier ones, which had centered about the possession of a French-jointed doll with real hair. Was it only ten years since she had wavered an imagination between the English Earl and the Italian prince? Relentlessly her mind travelled on over the dreary interval. After two years of hungry roaming Mrs. Bart had died, died of a deep disgust. She hated denginess, and it was her fate to be dengy. Her visions of a brilliant marriage for Lily had faded after the first year. People can't marry you if they don't see you. How could they see you in these holes where we're stuck? That was the burden of her lament, and her last adoration to her daughter was to escape from denginess if she could. Don't let it creep up on you and drag you down. Get your way out of it somehow. You're young and can do it," she insisted. She had died during one of their brief visits to New York, and there Lily at once became the center of a family council composed of the wealthy relatives whom she had been taught to despise for living like pigs. It may be that they had an inkling of the sentiments in which she had been brought up, for none of them manifested a very lively desire for her company. Indeed, the question threatened to remain unsolved till Mrs. Peniston, with a sigh, announced, I'll try her for a year. Everyone was surprised, but one and all concealed their surprise. Less Mrs. Peniston should be alarmed by it into reconsidering her decision. Mrs. Peniston was Mr. Bart's widowed sister, and she was by no means the richest of the family group. Its other members nevertheless abounded in reasons why she was clearly destined by Providence to assume the charge of Lily. In the first place she was alone, and it would be charming for her to have a young companion. Then she sometimes traveled, and Lily's familiarity with foreign customs, deplored as a misfortune by her more conservative relatives, would at least enable her to act as a kind of courier. But as a matter of fact Mrs. Peniston had not been affected by these considerations. She had taken the girl simply because no one else would have her, and because she had the kind of moral mauvaise haunt which makes the public display of selfishness difficult, though it does not interfere with its private indulgence. It would have been impossible for Mrs. Peniston to be heroic on a desert island, but with the eyes of her little world upon her she took a certain pleasure in her act. She reaped the reward to which disinterestedness is entitled and found an agreeable companion in her niece. She had expected to find Lily headstrong, critical, and foreign, for even Mrs. Peniston, though she occasionally went abroad, had the family dread of foreignness, but the girl showed appliances which, to a more penetrating mind than her ounce, might have been less reassuring than the open selfishness of youth. Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one. Mrs. Peniston, however, did not suffer from her niece's adaptability. Lily had no intention of taking advantage of her aunt's good nature. She was, in truth, grateful for the refuge offered her. Mrs. Peniston's opulent interior was at least not externally dengy. But denginess is equality, which assumes all manner disguises, and Lily soon found that it was as latent in the expensive routine of her aunt's life as in the makeshift existence of a continental pension. Mrs. Peniston was one of the episodical persons who formed the padding of life. It was impossible to believe that she had herself ever been a focus of activities. The most vivid thing about her was the fact that her grandmother had been a Van Alstein. This connection with the well-fed and industrious stock of early New York revealed itself in the glacial neatness of Mrs. Peniston's drawing-room, and in the excellence of her cuisine. She belonged to the class of old New Yorkers who have always lived well, dressed expensively, and done little else, and to these inherited obligations Mrs. Peniston faithfully conformed. She had always been a looker on at life, and her mind resembled one of those little mirrors which her Dutch ancestors were accustomed to fix on their upper windows, so that from the depths of an impenetrable domesticity they might see what was happening in the street. Mrs. Peniston was the owner of a country place in New Jersey, but she had never lived there, since her husband's death, a remote event which appeared to dwell in her memory, chiefly as a dividing point in the personal reminiscences that formed the staple of her conversation. She was a woman who remembered dates with intensity, and could tell at a moment's notice whether the drawing-room curtains had been renewed before or after Mr. Peniston's last illness. Mrs. Peniston thought the country lonely, and trees damp, and cherished a vague fear of meeting a ball. To guard against such contingencies she frequented the more populous watering-places where she installed herself impersonally in a hired house and looked on at life through the matting-screen of her veranda. In the care of such a guardian it soon became clear to Lily that she was to enjoy only the material advantages of good food and expensive clothing, and though far from underrating these she would gladly have exchanged them for what Mrs. Bart had taught her to regard as opportunities. She sighed to think what her mother's fierce energies would have accomplished had they been coupled with Mrs. Peniston's resources. Lily had abundant energy of her own, but it was restricted by the necessity of adapting herself to her aunt's habits. She saw that at all costs she must keep Mrs. Peniston's favor till, as Mrs. Bart would have phrased it, she could stand on her own legs. Lily had no mind for the vagabond life of the poor relation, and to adapt herself to Mrs. Peniston she had, to some degree, to assume that lady's passive attitude. She had fancied at first that it would be easy to draw her aunt into the world of her own activities, but there was a static force in Mrs. Peniston against which her niece's efforts spent themselves in vain. To attempt to bring her into active relation with life was like tugging a piece of furniture which has been screwed to the floor. She did not, indeed, expect Lily to remain equally immovable. She had all the American Guardian's indulgence for the volatility of youth. She had indulgence also for certain other habits of her niece's. It seemed to her natural that Lily should spend all her money on dress, and she supplemented the girl's scanty income by occasional handsome presence meant to be applied to the same purpose. Lily, who was intensely practical, would have preferred a fixed allowance, but Mrs. Peniston, like the periodical recurrence of gratitude, evoked by unexpected checks, and was perhaps shrewd enough to perceive that such a method of giving kept alive at her niece a salutary sense of dependence. Beyond this Mrs. Peniston had not felt called upon to do anything for her charge. She had simply stood aside and let her take the field. Lily had taken it, at first with the confidence of a shirt possessorship, then with gradually narrowing demands, till now she found herself actually struggling for a foothold on the broad space which had once seemed her own for the asking. How it happened she did not yet know. Sometimes she thought it was because Mrs. Peniston had been too passive, and again she feared it was because she herself had not been passive enough. Had she shown an undue eagerness for victory? Had she lacked patience, pliancy, and dissimulation? Whether she charged herself with these faults or absolved herself from them made no difference in the sum total of her failure. Younger and planer girls had been married off by dozens, and she was nine and twenty, and still Miss Bard. She was beginning to have fits of angry rebellion against fate when she longed to drop out of the race and make an independent life for herself. But what manner of life would it be? She had barely enough money to pay her dressmaker's bills and her gambling debts, and none of the desultory interest which she dignified with the name of Tase was pronounced enough to enable her to live contentedly in obscurity. Ah, no! She was too intelligent not to be honest with herself. She knew that she hated dinginess as much as her mother had hated it, and to her last breath she meant to fight against it, dragging herself up again and again above its flood till she gained the bright pinnacles of success which presented such a slippery surface to her clutch.