The Age ofInnocence

Edith Wharton

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Book I

I.

On a January evening of the early seventies,Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at theAcademy of Music in New York.

Though there was already talk of the erection,in remote metropolitan distances "above theForties," of a new Opera House which shouldcompete in costliness and splendour with thoseof the great European capitals, the world offashion was still content to reassemble everywinter in the shabby red and gold boxes of thesociable old Academy. Conservatives cherishedit for being small and inconvenient, and thuskeeping out the "new people" whom New Yorkwas beginning to dread and yet be drawn to;and the sentimental clung to it for its historicassociations, and the musical for its excellent

acoustics, always so problematic a quality inhalls built for the hearing of music.

It was Madame Nilsson's first appearance thatwinter, and what the daily press had alreadylearned to describe as "an exceptionally brilliantaudience" had gathered to hear her, trans-ported through the slippery, snowy streets inprivate broughams, in the spacious family lan-dau, or in the humbler but more convenient"Brown coupe." To come to the Opera in aBrown coupe was almost as honourable a wayof arriving as in one's own carriage; and depar-ture by the same means had the immense ad-vantage of enabling one (with a playful allusionto democratic principles) to scramble into thefirst Brown conveyance in the line, instead ofwaiting till the cold-and-gin congested nose ofone's own coachman gleamed under the porticoof the Academy. It was one of the great livery-stableman's most masterly intuitions to havediscovered that Americans want to get away

from amusement even more quickly than theywant to get to it.

When Newland Archer opened the door at theback of the club box the curtain had just goneup on the garden scene. There was no reasonwhy the young man should not have come ear-lier, for he had dined at seven, alone with hismother and sister, and had lingered afterwardover a cigar in the Gothic library with glazedblack-walnut bookcases and finial-toppedchairs which was the only room in the housewhere Mrs. Archer allowed smoking. But, inthe first place, New York was a metropolis, andperfectly aware that in metropolises it was "notthe thing" to arrive early at the opera; and whatwas or was not "the thing" played a part as im-portant in Newland Archer's New York as theinscrutable totem terrors that had ruled thedestinies of his forefathers thousands of yearsago.

The second reason for his delay was a personalone. He had dawdled over his cigar because hewas at heart a dilettante, and thinking over apleasure to come often gave him a subtler satis-faction than its realisation. This was especiallythe case when the pleasure was a delicate one,as his pleasures mostly were; and on this occa-sion the moment he looked forward to was sorare and exquisite in quality that—well, if hehad timed his arrival in accord with the primadonna's stage-manager he could not have en-tered the Academy at a more significant mo-ment than just as she was singing: "He lovesme—he loves me not—HE LOVES ME!—" andsprinkling the falling daisy petals with notes asclear as dew.

She sang, of course, "M'ama!" and not "he lovesme," since an unalterable and unquestionedlaw of the musical world required that theGerman text of French operas sung by Swedishartists should be translated into Italian for the

clearer understanding of English-speaking au-diences. This seemed as natural to NewlandArcher as all the other conventions on whichhis life was moulded: such as the duty of usingtwo silver-backed brushes with his monogramin blue enamel to part his hair, and of neverappearing in society without a flower (prefera-bly a gardenia) in his buttonhole.

"M'ama ... non m'ama ..." the prima donna sang,and "M'ama!", with a final burst of love trium-phant, as she pressed the dishevelled daisy toher lips and lifted her large eyes to the sophisti-cated countenance of the little brown Faust-Capoul, who was vainly trying, in a tight pur-ple velvet doublet and plumed cap, to look aspure and true as his artless victim.

Newland Archer, leaning against the wall at theback of the club box, turned his eyes from thestage and scanned the opposite side of thehouse. Directly facing him was the box of oldMrs. Manson Mingott, whose monstrous obe-

sity had long since made it impossible for herto attend the Opera, but who was always repre-sented on fashionable nights by some of theyounger members of the family. On this occa-sion, the front of the box was filled by herdaughter-in-law, Mrs. Lovell Mingott, and herdaughter, Mrs. Welland; and slightly with-drawn behind these brocaded matrons sat ayoung girl in white with eyes ecstatically fixedon the stagelovers. As Madame Nilsson's"M'ama!" thrilled out above the silent house(the boxes always stopped talking during theDaisy Song) a warm pink mounted to the girl'scheek, mantled her brow to the roots of her fairbraids, and suffused the young slope of herbreast to the line where it met a modest tulletucker fastened with a single gardenia. Shedropped her eyes to the immense bouquet oflilies-of-the-valley on her knee, and NewlandArcher saw her white-gloved finger-tips touchthe flowers softly. He drew a breath of satisfiedvanity and his eyes returned to the stage.

No expense had been spared on the setting,which was acknowledged to be very beautifuleven by people who shared his acquaintancewith the Opera houses of Paris and Vienna. Theforeground, to the footlights, was covered withemerald green cloth. In the middle distancesymmetrical mounds of woolly green mossbounded by croquet hoops formed the base ofshrubs shaped like orange-trees but studdedwith large pink and red roses. Gigantic pansies,considerably larger than the roses, and closelyresembling the floral pen-wipers made by fe-male parishioners for fashionable clergymen,sprang from the moss beneath the rose-trees;and here and there a daisy grafted on a rose-branch flowered with a luxuriance prophetic ofMr. Luther Burbank's far-off prodigies.

In the centre of this enchanted garden MadameNilsson, in white cashmere slashed with paleblue satin, a reticule dangling from a blue gir-dle, and large yellow braids carefully disposed

on each side of her muslin chemisette, listenedwith downcast eyes to M. Capoul's impas-sioned wooing, and affected a guileless incom-prehension of his designs whenever, by wordor glance, he persuasively indicated the groundfloor window of the neat brick villa projectingobliquely from the right wing.

"The darling!" thought Newland Archer, hisglance flitting back to the young girl with thelilies-of-the-valley. "She doesn't even guesswhat it's all about." And he contemplated herabsorbed young face with a thrill of possessor-ship in which pride in his own masculine initia-tion was mingled with a tender reverence forher abysmal purity. "We'll read Faust together... by the Italian lakes ..." he thought, somewhathazily confusing the scene of his projectedhoney-moon with the masterpieces of literaturewhich it would be his manly privilege to revealto his bride. It was only that afternoon that MayWelland had let him guess that she "cared"

(New York's consecrated phrase of maidenavowal), and already his imagination, leapingahead of the engagement ring, the betrothalkiss and the march from Lohengrin, picturedher at his side in some scene of old Europeanwitchery.

He did not in the least wish the future Mrs.Newland Archer to be a simpleton. He meanther (thanks to his enlightening companionship)to develop a social tact and readiness of witenabling her to hold her own with the mostpopular married women of the "younger set,"in which it was the recognised custom to attractmasculine homage while playfully discourag-ing it. If he had probed to the bottom of hisvanity (as he sometimes nearly did) he wouldhave found there the wish that his wife shouldbe as worldly-wise and as eager to please as themarried lady whose charms had held his fancythrough two mildly agitated years; without, ofcourse, any hint of the frailty which had so

nearly marred that unhappy being's life, andhad disarranged his own plans for a wholewinter.

How this miracle of fire and ice was to be cre-ated, and to sustain itself in a harsh world, hehad never taken the time to think out; but hewas content to hold his view without analysingit, since he knew it was that of all the carefully-brushed, white-waistcoated, button-hole-flowered gentlemen who succeeded each otherin the club box, exchanged friendly greetingswith him, and turned their opera-glasses criti-cally on the circle of ladies who were the prod-uct of the system. In matters intellectual andartistic Newland Archer felt himself distinctlythe superior of these chosen specimens of oldNew York gentility; he had probably readmore, thought more, and even seen a good dealmore of the world, than any other man of thenumber. Singly they betrayed their inferiority;but grouped together they represented "New

York," and the habit of masculine solidaritymade him accept their doctrine on all the issuescalled moral. He instinctively felt that in thisrespect it would be troublesome—and alsorather bad form—to strike out for himself.

"Well—upon my soul!" exclaimed LawrenceLefferts, turning his opera-glass abruptly awayfrom the stage. Lawrence Lefferts was, on thewhole, the foremost authority on "form" inNew York. He had probably devoted moretime than any one else to the study of this intri-cate and fascinating question; but study alonecould not account for his complete and easycompetence. One had only to look at him, fromthe slant of his bald forehead and the curve ofhis beautiful fair moustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his lean and ele-gant person, to feel that the knowledge of"form" must be congenital in any one whoknew how to wear such good clothes so care-lessly and carry such height with so much

lounging grace. As a young admirer had oncesaid of him: "If anybody can tell a fellow justwhen to wear a black tie with evening clothesand when not to, it's Larry Lefferts." And onthe question of pumps versus patent-leather"Oxfords" his authority had never been dis-puted.

"My God!" he said; and silently handed hisglass to old Sillerton Jackson.

Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance,saw with surprise that his exclamation hadbeen occasioned by the entry of a new figureinto old Mrs. Mingott's box. It was that of aslim young woman, a little less tall than MayWelland, with brown hair growing in closecurls about her temples and held in place by anarrow band of diamonds. The suggestion ofthis headdress, which gave her what was thencalled a "Josephine look," was carried out in thecut of the dark blue velvet gown rather theatri-cally caught up under her bosom by a girdle

with a large old-fashioned clasp. The wearer ofthis unusual dress, who seemed quite uncon-scious of the attention it was attracting, stood amoment in the centre of the box, discussingwith Mrs. Welland the propriety of taking thelatter's place in the front right-hand corner;then she yielded with a slight smile, and seatedherself in line with Mrs. Welland's sister-in-law,Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who was installed in theopposite corner.

Mr. Sillerton Jackson had returned the opera-glass to Lawrence Lefferts. The whole of theclub turned instinctively, waiting to hear whatthe old man had to say; for old Mr. Jackson wasas great an authority on "family" as LawrenceLefferts was on "form." He knew all the ramifi-cations of New York's cousinships; and couldnot only elucidate such complicated questionsas that of the connection between the Mingotts(through the Thorleys) with the Dallases ofSouth Carolina, and that of the relationship of

the elder branch of Philadelphia Thorleys to theAlbany Chiverses (on no account to be con-fused with the Manson Chiverses of UniversityPlace), but could also enumerate the leadingcharacteristics of each family: as, for instance,the fabulous stinginess of the younger lines ofLeffertses (the Long Island ones); or the fataltendency of the Rushworths to make foolishmatches; or the insanity recurring in every sec-ond generation of the Albany Chiverses, withwhom their New York cousins had always re-fused to intermarry—with the disastrous ex-ception of poor Medora Manson, who, as eve-rybody knew ... but then her mother was aRushworth.

In addition to this forest of family trees, Mr.Sillerton Jackson carried between his narrowhollow temples, and under his soft thatch ofsilver hair, a register of most of the scandalsand mysteries that had smouldered under theunruffled surface of New York society within

the last fifty years. So far indeed did his infor-mation extend, and so acutely retentive was hismemory, that he was supposed to be the onlyman who could have told you who Julius Beau-fort, the banker, really was, and what had be-come of handsome Bob Spicer, old Mrs. Man-son Mingott's father, who had disappeared somysteriously (with a large sum of trust money)less than a year after his marriage, on the veryday that a beautiful Spanish dancer who hadbeen delighting thronged audiences in the oldOpera-house on the Battery had taken ship forCuba. But these mysteries, and many others,were closely locked in Mr. Jackson's breast; fornot only did his keen sense of honour forbid hisrepeating anything privately imparted, but hewas fully aware that his reputation for discre-tion increased his opportunities of finding outwhat he wanted to know.

The club box, therefore, waited in visible sus-pense while Mr. Sillerton Jackson handed back

Lawrence Lefferts's opera-glass. For a momenthe silently scrutinised the attentive group outof his filmy blue eyes overhung by old veinedlids; then he gave his moustache a thoughtfultwist, and said simply: "I didn't think the Min-gotts would have tried it on."

II.

Newland Archer, during this brief episode, hadbeen thrown into a strange state of embarrass-ment.

It was annoying that the box which was thusattracting the undivided attention of masculineNew York should be that in which his be-trothed was seated between her mother andaunt; and for a moment he could not identifythe lady in the Empire dress, nor imagine whyher presence created such excitement among

the initiated. Then light dawned on him, andwith it came a momentary rush of indignation.No, indeed; no one would have thought theMingotts would have tried it on!

But they had; they undoubtedly had; for thelow-toned comments behind him left no doubtin Archer's mind that the young woman wasMay Welland's cousin, the cousin always re-ferred to in the family as "poor Ellen Olenska."Archer knew that she had suddenly arrivedfrom Europe a day or two previously; he hadeven heard from Miss Welland (not disapprov-ingly) that she had been to see poor Ellen, whowas staying with old Mrs. Mingott. Archer en-tirely approved of family solidarity, and one ofthe qualities he most admired in the Mingottswas their resolute championship of the fewblack sheep that their blameless stock had pro-duced. There was nothing mean or ungenerousin the young man's heart, and he was glad thathis future wife should not be restrained by false

prudery from being kind (in private) to herunhappy cousin; but to receive Countess Olen-ska in the family circle was a different thingfrom producing her in public, at the Opera ofall places, and in the very box with the younggirl whose engagement to him, NewlandArcher, was to be announced within a fewweeks. No, he felt as old Sillerton Jackson felt;he did not think the Mingotts would have triedit on!

He knew, of course, that whatever man dared(within Fifth Avenue's limits) that old Mrs.Manson Mingott, the Matriarch of the line,would dare. He had always admired the highand mighty old lady, who, in spite of havingbeen only Catherine Spicer of Staten Island,with a father mysteriously discredited, andneither money nor position enough to makepeople forget it, had allied herself with thehead of the wealthy Mingott line, married twoof her daughters to "foreigners" (an Italian

marquis and an English banker), and put thecrowning touch to her audacities by building alarge house of pale cream-coloured stone(when brown sandstone seemed as much theonly wear as a frock-coat in the afternoon) in aninaccessible wilderness near the Central Park.

Old Mrs. Mingott's foreign daughters had be-come a legend. They never came back to seetheir mother, and the latter being, like manypersons of active mind and dominating will,sedentary and corpulent in her habit, had phi-losophically remained at home. But the cream-coloured house (supposed to be modelled onthe private hotels of the Parisian aristocracy)was there as a visible proof of her moral cour-age; and she throned in it, among pre-Revolutionary furniture and souvenirs of theTuileries of Louis Napoleon (where she hadshone in her middle age), as placidly as if therewere nothing peculiar in living above Thirty-fourth Street, or in having French windows that

opened like doors instead of sashes that pushedup.

Every one (including Mr. Sillerton Jackson) wasagreed that old Catherine had never hadbeauty—a gift which, in the eyes of New York,justified every success, and excused a certainnumber of failings. Unkind people said that,like her Imperial namesake, she had won herway to success by strength of will and hardnessof heart, and a kind of haughty effrontery thatwas somehow justified by the extreme decencyand dignity of her private life. Mr. MansonMingott had died when she was only twenty-eight, and had "tied up" the money with anadditional caution born of the general distrustof the Spicers; but his bold young widow wenther way fearlessly, mingled freely in foreignsociety, married her daughters in heaven knewwhat corrupt and fashionable circles, hob-nobbed with Dukes and Ambassadors, associ-ated familiarly with Papists, entertained Opera

singers, and was the intimate friend of Mme.Taglioni; and all the while (as Sillerton Jacksonwas the first to proclaim) there had never beena breath on her reputation; the only respect, healways added, in which she differed from theearlier Catherine.

Mrs. Manson Mingott had long since succeededin untying her husband's fortune, and hadlived in affluence for half a century; but memo-ries of her early straits had made her exces-sively thrifty, and though, when she bought adress or a piece of furniture, she took care thatit should be of the best, she could not bringherself to spend much on the transient pleas-ures of the table. Therefore, for totally differentreasons, her food was as poor as Mrs. Archer's,and her wines did nothing to redeem it. Herrelatives considered that the penury of her tablediscredited the Mingott name, which had al-ways been associated with good living; butpeople continued to come to her in spite of the

"made dishes" and flat champagne, and in replyto the remonstrances of her son Lovell (whotried to retrieve the family credit by having thebest chef in New York) she used to say laugh-ingly: "What's the use of two good cooks in onefamily, now that I've married the girls and can'teat sauces?"

Newland Archer, as he mused on these things,had once more turned his eyes toward theMingott box. He saw that Mrs. Welland and hersister-in-law were facing their semicircle ofcritics with the Mingottian APLOMB which oldCatherine had inculcated in all her tribe, andthat only May Welland betrayed, by a height-ened colour (perhaps due to the knowledgethat he was watching her) a sense of the gravityof the situation. As for the cause of the commo-tion, she sat gracefully in her corner of the box,her eyes fixed on the stage, and revealing, asshe leaned forward, a little more shoulder andbosom than New York was accustomed to see-

ing, at least in ladies who had reasons for wish-ing to pass unnoticed.

Few things seemed to Newland Archer moreawful than an offence against "Taste," that far-off divinity of whom "Form" was the mere visi-ble representative and vicegerent. MadameOlenska's pale and serious face appealed to hisfancy as suited to the occasion and to her un-happy situation; but the way her dress (whichhad no tucker) sloped away from her thinshoulders shocked and troubled him. He hatedto think of May Welland's being exposed to theinfluence of a young woman so careless of thedictates of Taste.

"After all," he heard one of the younger menbegin behind him (everybody talked throughthe Mephistopheles-and-Martha scenes), "afterall, just WHAT happened?"

"Well—she left him; nobody attempts to denythat."

"He's an awful brute, isn't he?" continued theyoung enquirer, a candid Thorley, who wasevidently preparing to enter the lists as thelady's champion.

"The very worst; I knew him at Nice," saidLawrence Lefferts with authority. "A half-paralysed white sneering fellow—rather hand-some head, but eyes with a lot of lashes. Well,I'll tell you the sort: when he wasn't withwomen he was collecting china. Paying anyprice for both, I understand."

There was a general laugh, and the youngchampion said: "Well, then——?"

"Well, then; she bolted with his secretary."

"Oh, I see." The champion's face fell.

"It didn't last long, though: I heard of her a fewmonths later living alone in Venice. I believeLovell Mingott went out to get her. He said she

was desperately unhappy. That's all right—butthis parading her at the Opera's another thing."

"Perhaps," young Thorley hazarded, "she's toounhappy to be left at home."

This was greeted with an irreverent laugh, andthe youth blushed deeply, and tried to look asif he had meant to insinuate what knowingpeople called a "double entendre."

"Well—it's queer to have brought Miss Wel-land, anyhow," some one said in a low tone,with a side-glance at Archer.

"Oh, that's part of the campaign: Granny's or-ders, no doubt," Lefferts laughed. "When theold lady does a thing she does it thoroughly."

The act was ending, and there was a generalstir in the box. Suddenly Newland Archer felthimself impelled to decisive action. The desireto be the first man to enter Mrs. Mingott's box,

to proclaim to the waiting world his engage-ment to May Welland, and to see her throughwhatever difficulties her cousin's anomaloussituation might involve her in; this impulse hadabruptly overruled all scruples and hesitations,and sent him hurrying through the red corri-dors to the farther side of the house.

As he entered the box his eyes met Miss Wel-land's, and he saw that she had instantly un-derstood his motive, though the family dignitywhich both considered so high a virtue wouldnot permit her to tell him so. The persons oftheir world lived in an atmosphere of faint im-plications and pale delicacies, and the fact thathe and she understood each other without aword seemed to the young man to bring themnearer than any explanation would have done.Her eyes said: "You see why Mamma broughtme," and his answered: "I would not for theworld have had you stay away."

"You know my niece Countess Olenska?" Mrs.Welland enquired as she shook hands with herfuture son-in-law. Archer bowed without ex-tending his hand, as was the custom on beingintroduced to a lady; and Ellen Olenska benther head slightly, keeping her own pale-glovedhands clasped on her huge fan of eagle feath-ers. Having greeted Mrs. Lovell Mingott, alarge blonde lady in creaking satin, he sat downbeside his betrothed, and said in a low tone: "Ihope you've told Madame Olenska that we'reengaged? I want everybody to know—I wantyou to let me announce it this evening at theball."

Miss Welland's face grew rosy as the dawn,and she looked at him with radiant eyes. "Ifyou can persuade Mamma," she said; "but whyshould we change what is already settled?" Hemade no answer but that which his eyes re-turned, and she added, still more confidentlysmiling: "Tell my cousin yourself: I give you

leave. She says she used to play with you whenyou were children."

She made way for him by pushing back herchair, and promptly, and a little ostentatiously,with the desire that the whole house should seewhat he was doing, Archer seated himself atthe Countess Olenska's side.

"We DID use to play together, didn't we?" sheasked, turning her grave eyes to his. "You werea horrid boy, and kissed me once behind adoor; but it was your cousin Vandie Newland,who never looked at me, that I was in lovewith." Her glance swept the horse-shoe curve ofboxes. "Ah, how this brings it all back to me—Isee everybody here in knickerbockers and pan-talettes," she said, with her trailing slightly for-eign accent, her eyes returning to his face.

Agreeable as their expression was, the youngman was shocked that they should reflect sounseemly a picture of the august tribunal be-

fore which, at that very moment, her case wasbeing tried. Nothing could be in worse tastethan misplaced flippancy; and he answeredsomewhat stiffly: "Yes, you have been away avery long time."

"Oh, centuries and centuries; so long," she said,"that I'm sure I'm dead and buried, and thisdear old place is heaven;" which, for reasons hecould not define, struck Newland Archer as aneven more disrespectful way of describing NewYork society.

III.

It invariably happened in the same way.

Mrs. Julius Beaufort, on the night of her annualball, never failed to appear at the Opera; in-deed, she always gave her ball on an Opera

night in order to emphasise her complete supe-riority to household cares, and her possessionof a staff of servants competent to organiseevery detail of the entertainment in her ab-sence.

The Beauforts' house was one of the few inNew York that possessed a ball-room (it ante-dated even Mrs. Manson Mingott's and theHeadly Chiverses'); and at a time when it wasbeginning to be thought "provincial" to put a"crash" over the drawing-room floor and movethe furniture upstairs, the possession of a ball-room that was used for no other purpose, andleft for three-hundred-and-sixty-four days ofthe year to shuttered darkness, with its giltchairs stacked in a corner and its chandelier ina bag; this undoubted superiority was felt tocompensate for whatever was regrettable in theBeaufort past.

Mrs. Archer, who was fond of coining her so-cial philosophy into axioms, had once said: "We

all have our pet common people—" and thoughthe phrase was a daring one, its truth was se-cretly admitted in many an exclusive bosom.But the Beauforts were not exactly common;some people said they were even worse. Mrs.Beaufort belonged indeed to one of America'smost honoured families; she had been thelovely Regina Dallas (of the South Carolinabranch), a penniless beauty introduced to NewYork society by her cousin, the imprudent Me-dora Manson, who was always doing thewrong thing from the right motive. When onewas related to the Mansons and the Rush-worths one had a "droit de cite" (as Mr. Siller-ton Jackson, who had frequented the Tuileries,called it) in New York society; but did one notforfeit it in marrying Julius Beaufort?

The question was: who was Beaufort? Hepassed for an Englishman, was agreeable,handsome, ill-tempered, hospitable and witty.He had come to America with letters of rec-

ommendation from old Mrs. Manson Mingott'sEnglish son-in-law, the banker, and had speed-ily made himself an important position in theworld of affairs; but his habits were dissipated,his tongue was bitter, his antecedents weremysterious; and when Medora Manson an-nounced her cousin's engagement to him it wasfelt to be one more act of folly in poor Medora'slong record of imprudences.

But folly is as often justified of her children aswisdom, and two years after young Mrs. Beau-fort's marriage it was admitted that she had themost distinguished house in New York. No oneknew exactly how the miracle was accom-plished. She was indolent, passive, the causticeven called her dull; but dressed like an idol,hung with pearls, growing younger andblonder and more beautiful each year, shethroned in Mr. Beaufort's heavy brown-stonepalace, and drew all the world there withoutlifting her jewelled little finger. The knowing

people said it was Beaufort himself who trainedthe servants, taught the chef new dishes, toldthe gardeners what hot-house flowers to growfor the dinner-table and the drawing-rooms,selected the guests, brewed the after-dinnerpunch and dictated the little notes his wifewrote to her friends. If he did, these domesticactivities were privately performed, and hepresented to the world the appearance of acareless and hospitable millionaire strollinginto his own drawing-room with the detach-ment of an invited guest, and saying: "Mywife's gloxinias are a marvel, aren't they? I be-lieve she gets them out from Kew."

Mr. Beaufort's secret, people were agreed, wasthe way he carried things off. It was all verywell to whisper that he had been "helped" toleave England by the international banking-house in which he had been employed; he car-ried off that rumour as easily as the rest—though New York's business conscience was no

less sensitive than its moral standard—he car-ried everything before him, and all New Yorkinto his drawing-rooms, and for over twentyyears now people had said they were "going tothe Beauforts'" with the same tone of security asif they had said they were going to Mrs. Man-son Mingott's, and with the added satisfactionof knowing they would get hot canvas-backducks and vintage wines, instead of tepidVeuve Clicquot without a year and warmed-upcroquettes from Philadelphia.

Mrs. Beaufort, then, had as usual appeared inher box just before the Jewel Song; and when,again as usual, she rose at the end of the thirdact, drew her opera cloak about her lovelyshoulders, and disappeared, New York knewthat meant that half an hour later the ballwould begin.

The Beaufort house was one that New Yorkerswere proud to show to foreigners, especially onthe night of the annual ball. The Beauforts had

been among the first people in New York toown their own red velvet carpet and have itrolled down the steps by their own footmen,under their own awning, instead of hiring itwith the supper and the ball-room chairs. Theyhad also inaugurated the custom of letting theladies take their cloaks off in the hall, instead ofshuffling up to the hostess's bedroom and re-curling their hair with the aid of the gas-burner;Beaufort was understood to have said that hesupposed all his wife's friends had maids whosaw to it that they were properly coiffees whenthey left home.

Then the house had been boldly planned with aball-room, so that, instead of squeezingthrough a narrow passage to get to it (as at theChiverses') one marched solemnly down a vistaof enfiladed drawing-rooms (the sea-green, thecrimson and the bouton d'or), seeing from afarthe many-candled lustres reflected in the pol-ished parquetry, and beyond that the depths of

a conservatory where camellias and tree-fernsarched their costly foliage over seats of blackand gold bamboo.

Newland Archer, as became a young man ofhis position, strolled in somewhat late. He hadleft his overcoat with the silk-stockinged foot-men (the stockings were one of Beaufort's fewfatuities), had dawdled a while in the libraryhung with Spanish leather and furnished withBuhl and malachite, where a few men werechatting and putting on their dancing-gloves,and had finally joined the line of guests whomMrs. Beaufort was receiving on the threshold ofthe crimson drawing-room.

Archer was distinctly nervous. He had notgone back to his club after the Opera (as theyoung bloods usually did), but, the night beingfine, had walked for some distance up FifthAvenue before turning back in the direction ofthe Beauforts' house. He was definitely afraidthat the Mingotts might be going too far; that,

in fact, they might have Granny Mingott's or-ders to bring the Countess Olenska to the ball.

From the tone of the club box he had perceivedhow grave a mistake that would be; and,though he was more than ever determined to"see the thing through," he felt less chivalrouslyeager to champion his betrothed's cousin thanbefore their brief talk at the Opera.

Wandering on to the bouton d'or drawing-room (where Beaufort had had the audacity tohang "Love Victorious," the much-discussednude of Bouguereau) Archer found Mrs. Wel-land and her daughter standing near the ball-room door. Couples were already gliding overthe floor beyond: the light of the wax candlesfell on revolving tulle skirts, on girlish headswreathed with modest blossoms, on the dash-ing aigrettes and ornaments of the young mar-ried women's coiffures, and on the glitter ofhighly glazed shirt-fronts and fresh glacegloves.

Miss Welland, evidently about to join the danc-ers, hung on the threshold, her lilies-of-the-valley in her hand (she carried no other bou-quet), her face a little pale, her eyes burningwith a candid excitement. A group of youngmen and girls were gathered about her, andthere was much hand-clasping, laughing andpleasantry on which Mrs. Welland, standingslightly apart, shed the beam of a qualified ap-proval. It was evident that Miss Welland was inthe act of announcing her engagement, whileher mother affected the air of parental reluc-tance considered suitable to the occasion.

Archer paused a moment. It was at his expresswish that the announcement had been made,and yet it was not thus that he would havewished to have his happiness known. To pro-claim it in the heat and noise of a crowded ball-room was to rob it of the fine bloom of privacywhich should belong to things nearest theheart. His joy was so deep that this blurring of

the surface left its essence untouched; but hewould have liked to keep the surface pure too.It was something of a satisfaction to find thatMay Welland shared this feeling. Her eyes fledto his beseechingly, and their look said: "Re-member, we're doing this because it's right."

No appeal could have found a more immediateresponse in Archer's breast; but he wished thatthe necessity of their action had been repre-sented by some ideal reason, and not simply bypoor Ellen Olenska. The group about Miss Wel-land made way for him with significant smiles,and after taking his share of the felicitations hedrew his betrothed into the middle of the ball-room floor and put his arm about her waist.

"Now we shan't have to talk," he said, smilinginto her candid eyes, as they floated away onthe soft waves of the Blue Danube.

She made no answer. Her lips trembled into asmile, but the eyes remained distant and seri-

ous, as if bent on some ineffable vision. "Dear,"Archer whispered, pressing her to him: it wasborne in on him that the first hours of beingengaged, even if spent in a ball-room, had inthem something grave and sacramental. What anew life it was going to be, with this whiteness,radiance, goodness at one's side!

The dance over, the two, as became an affi-anced couple, wandered into the conservatory;and sitting behind a tall screen of tree-ferns andcamellias Newland pressed her gloved hand tohis lips.

"You see I did as you asked me to," she said.

"Yes: I couldn't wait," he answered smiling.After a moment he added: "Only I wish it had-n't had to be at a ball."

"Yes, I know." She met his glance comprehend-ingly. "But after all—even here we're alone to-gether, aren't we?"

"Oh, dearest—always!" Archer cried.

Evidently she was always going to understand;she was always going to say the right thing.The discovery made the cup of his bliss over-flow, and he went on gaily: "The worst of it isthat I want to kiss you and I can't." As he spokehe took a swift glance about the conservatory,assured himself of their momentary privacy,and catching her to him laid a fugitive pressureon her lips. To counteract the audacity of thisproceeding he led her to a bamboo sofa in a lesssecluded part of the conservatory, and sittingdown beside her broke a lily-of-the-valley fromher bouquet. She sat silent, and the world laylike a sunlit valley at their feet.

"Did you tell my cousin Ellen?" she asked pres-ently, as if she spoke through a dream.

He roused himself, and remembered that hehad not done so. Some invincible repugnance

to speak of such things to the strange foreignwoman had checked the words on his lips.

"No—I hadn't the chance after all," he said, fib-bing hastily.

"Ah." She looked disappointed, but gently re-solved on gaining her point. "You must, then,for I didn't either; and I shouldn't like her tothink—"

"Of course not. But aren't you, after all, the per-son to do it?"

She pondered on this. "If I'd done it at the righttime, yes: but now that there's been a delay Ithink you must explain that I'd asked you totell her at the Opera, before our speaking aboutit to everybody here. Otherwise she mightthink I had forgotten her. You see, she's one ofthe family, and she's been away so long thatshe's rather—sensitive."

Archer looked at her glowingly. "Dear andgreat angel! Of course I'll tell her." He glanced atrifle apprehensively toward the crowded ball-room. "But I haven't seen her yet. Has shecome?"

"No; at the last minute she decided not to."

"At the last minute?" he echoed, betraying hissurprise that she should ever have consideredthe alternative possible.

"Yes. She's awfully fond of dancing," the younggirl answered simply. "But suddenly she madeup her mind that her dress wasn't smartenough for a ball, though we thought it solovely; and so my aunt had to take her home."

"Oh, well—" said Archer with happy indiffer-ence. Nothing about his betrothed pleased himmore than her resolute determination to carryto its utmost limit that ritual of ignoring the

"unpleasant" in which they had both beenbrought up.

"She knows as well as I do," he reflected, "thereal reason of her cousin's staying away; but Ishall never let her see by the least sign that I amconscious of there being a shadow of a shadeon poor Ellen Olenska's reputation."

IV.

In the course of the next day the first of theusual betrothal visits were exchanged. TheNew York ritual was precise and inflexible insuch matters; and in conformity with itNewland Archer first went with his mother andsister to call on Mrs. Welland, after which heand Mrs. Welland and May drove out to oldMrs. Manson Mingott's to receive that vener-able ancestress's blessing.

A visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott was always anamusing episode to the young man. The housein itself was already an historic document,though not, of course, as venerable as certainother old family houses in University Place andlower Fifth Avenue. Those were of the purest1830, with a grim harmony of cabbage-rose-garlanded carpets, rosewood consoles, round-arched fire-places with black marble mantels,and immense glazed book-cases of mahogany;whereas old Mrs. Mingott, who had built herhouse later, had bodily cast out the massivefurniture of her prime, and mingled with theMingott heirlooms the frivolous upholstery ofthe Second Empire. It was her habit to sit in awindow of her sitting-room on the groundfloor, as if watching calmly for life and fashionto flow northward to her solitary doors. Sheseemed in no hurry to have them come, for herpatience was equalled by her confidence. Shewas sure that presently the hoardings, thequarries, the one-story saloons, the wooden

green-houses in ragged gardens, and the rocksfrom which goats surveyed the scene, wouldvanish before the advance of residences asstately as her own—perhaps (for she was animpartial woman) even statelier; and that thecobble-stones over which the old clatteringomnibuses bumped would be replaced bysmooth asphalt, such as people reported havingseen in Paris. Meanwhile, as every one shecared to see came to HER (and she could fill herrooms as easily as the Beauforts, and withoutadding a single item to the menu of her sup-pers), she did not suffer from her geographicisolation.

The immense accretion of flesh which had de-scended on her in middle life like a flood oflava on a doomed city had changed her from aplump active little woman with a neatly-turnedfoot and ankle into something as vast and au-gust as a natural phenomenon. She had ac-cepted this submergence as philosophically as

all her other trials, and now, in extreme old age,was rewarded by presenting to her mirror analmost unwrinkled expanse of firm pink andwhite flesh, in the centre of which the traces ofa small face survived as if awaiting excavation.A flight of smooth double chins led down tothe dizzy depths of a still-snowy bosom veiledin snowy muslins that were held in place by aminiature portrait of the late Mr. Mingott; andaround and below, wave after wave of blacksilk surged away over the edges of a capaciousarmchair, with two tiny white hands poisedlike gulls on the surface of the billows.

The burden of Mrs. Manson Mingott's flesh hadlong since made it impossible for her to go upand down stairs, and with characteristic inde-pendence she had made her reception roomsupstairs and established herself (in flagrantviolation of all the New York proprieties) onthe ground floor of her house; so that, as yousat in her sitting-room window with her, you

caught (through a door that was always open,and a looped-back yellow damask portiere) theunexpected vista of a bedroom with a huge lowbed upholstered like a sofa, and a toilet-tablewith frivolous lace flounces and a gilt-framedmirror.

Her visitors were startled and fascinated by theforeignness of this arrangement, which recalledscenes in French fiction, and architectural in-centives to immorality such as the simpleAmerican had never dreamed of. That was howwomen with lovers lived in the wicked old so-cieties, in apartments with all the rooms on onefloor, and all the indecent propinquities thattheir novels described. It amused NewlandArcher (who had secretly situated the love-scenes of "Monsieur de Camors" in Mrs. Min-gott's bedroom) to picture her blameless life ledin the stage-setting of adultery; but he said tohimself, with considerable admiration, that if a

lover had been what she wanted, the intrepidwoman would have had him too.

To the general relief the Countess Olenska wasnot present in her grandmother's drawing-room during the visit of the betrothed couple.Mrs. Mingott said she had gone out; which, ona day of such glaring sunlight, and at the"shopping hour," seemed in itself an indelicatething for a compromised woman to do. But atany rate it spared them the embarrassment ofher presence, and the faint shadow that herunhappy past might seem to shed on their ra-diant future. The visit went off successfully, aswas to have been expected. Old Mrs. Mingottwas delighted with the engagement, which,being long foreseen by watchful relatives, hadbeen carefully passed upon in family council;and the engagement ring, a large thick sapphireset in invisible claws, met with her unqualifiedadmiration.

"It's the new setting: of course it shows thestone beautifully, but it looks a little bare toold-fashioned eyes," Mrs. Welland had ex-plained, with a conciliatory side-glance at herfuture son-in-law.

"Old-fashioned eyes? I hope you don't meanmine, my dear? I like all the novelties," said theancestress, lifting the stone to her small brightorbs, which no glasses had ever disfigured."Very handsome," she added, returning thejewel; "very liberal. In my time a cameo set inpearls was thought sufficient. But it's the handthat sets off the ring, isn't it, my dear Mr.Archer?" and she waved one of her tiny hands,with small pointed nails and rolls of aged fatencircling the wrist like ivory bracelets. "Minewas modelled in Rome by the great Ferrigiani.You should have May's done: no doubt he'llhave it done, my child. Her hand is large—it'sthese modern sports that spread the joints—butthe skin is white.—And when's the wedding to

be?" she broke off, fixing her eyes on Archer'sface.

"Oh—" Mrs. Welland murmured, while theyoung man, smiling at his betrothed, replied:"As soon as ever it can, if only you'll back meup, Mrs. Mingott."

"We must give them time to get to know eachother a little better, mamma," Mrs. Wellandinterposed, with the proper affectation of reluc-tance; to which the ancestress rejoined: "Knoweach other? Fiddlesticks! Everybody in NewYork has always known everybody. Let theyoung man have his way, my dear; don't waittill the bubble's off the wine. Marry them beforeLent; I may catch pneumonia any winter now,and I want to give the wedding-breakfast."

These successive statements were received withthe proper expressions of amusement, incredu-lity and gratitude; and the visit was breakingup in a vein of mild pleasantry when the door

opened to admit the Countess Olenska, whoentered in bonnet and mantle followed by theunexpected figure of Julius Beaufort.

There was a cousinly murmur of pleasure be-tween the ladies, and Mrs. Mingott held outFerrigiani's model to the banker. "Ha! Beaufort,this is a rare favour!" (She had an odd foreignway of addressing men by their surnames.)

"Thanks. I wish it might happen oftener," saidthe visitor in his easy arrogant way. "I'm gener-ally so tied down; but I met the Countess Ellenin Madison Square, and she was good enoughto let me walk home with her."

"Ah—I hope the house will be gayer, now thatEllen's here!" cried Mrs. Mingott with a glori-ous effrontery. "Sit down—sit down, Beaufort:push up the yellow armchair; now I've got youI want a good gossip. I hear your ball wasmagnificent; and I understand you invited Mrs.

Lemuel Struthers? Well—I've a curiosity to seethe woman myself."

She had forgotten her relatives, who were drift-ing out into the hall under Ellen Olenska'sguidance. Old Mrs. Mingott had always pro-fessed a great admiration for Julius Beaufort,and there was a kind of kinship in their cooldomineering way and their short-cuts throughthe conventions. Now she was eagerly curiousto know what had decided the Beauforts toinvite (for the first time) Mrs. Lemuel Struthers,the widow of Struthers's Shoe-polish, who hadreturned the previous year from a long initia-tory sojourn in Europe to lay siege to the tightlittle citadel of New York. "Of course if you andRegina invite her the thing is settled. Well, weneed new blood and new money—and I hearshe's still very good-looking," the carnivorousold lady declared.

In the hall, while Mrs. Welland and May drewon their furs, Archer saw that the Countess

Olenska was looking at him with a faintly ques-tioning smile.

"Of course you know already—about May andme," he said, answering her look with a shylaugh. "She scolded me for not giving you thenews last night at the Opera: I had her orders totell you that we were engaged—but I couldn't,in that crowd."

The smile passed from Countess Olenska's eyesto her lips: she looked younger, more like thebold brown Ellen Mingott of his boyhood. "Ofcourse I know; yes. And I'm so glad. But onedoesn't tell such things first in a crowd." Theladies were on the threshold and she held outher hand.

"Good-bye; come and see me some day," shesaid, still looking at Archer.

In the carriage, on the way down Fifth Avenue,they talked pointedly of Mrs. Mingott, of her

age, her spirit, and all her wonderful attributes.No one alluded to Ellen Olenska; but Archerknew that Mrs. Welland was thinking: "It's amistake for Ellen to be seen, the very day afterher arrival, parading up Fifth Avenue at thecrowded hour with Julius Beaufort—" and theyoung man himself mentally added: "And sheought to know that a man who's just engageddoesn't spend his time calling on marriedwomen. But I daresay in the set she's lived inthey do—they never do anything else." And, inspite of the cosmopolitan views on which heprided himself, he thanked heaven that he wasa New Yorker, and about to ally himself withone of his own kind.

V.

The next evening old Mr. Sillerton Jacksoncame to dine with the Archers.

Mrs. Archer was a shy woman and shrank fromsociety; but she liked to be well-informed as toits doings. Her old friend Mr. Sillerton Jacksonapplied to the investigation of his friends' af-fairs the patience of a collector and the scienceof a naturalist; and his sister, Miss Sophy Jack-son, who lived with him, and was entertainedby all the people who could not secure hermuch-sought-after brother, brought home bitsof minor gossip that filled out usefully the gapsin his picture.

Therefore, whenever anything happened thatMrs. Archer wanted to know about, she askedMr. Jackson to dine; and as she honoured fewpeople with her invitations, and as she and herdaughter Janey were an excellent audience, Mr.Jackson usually came himself instead of send-ing his sister. If he could have dictated all theconditions, he would have chosen the eveningswhen Newland was out; not because the youngman was uncongenial to him (the two got on

capitally at their club) but because the old an-ecdotist sometimes felt, on Newland's part, atendency to weigh his evidence that the ladiesof the family never showed.

Mr. Jackson, if perfection had been attainableon earth, would also have asked that Mrs.Archer's food should be a little better. But thenNew York, as far back as the mind of mancould travel, had been divided into the twogreat fundamental groups of the Mingotts andMansons and all their clan, who cared abouteating and clothes and money, and the Archer-Newland-van-der-Luyden tribe, who were de-voted to travel, horticulture and the best fiction,and looked down on the grosser forms ofpleasure.

You couldn't have everything, after all. If youdined with the Lovell Mingotts you got canvas-back and terrapin and vintage wines; at Ade-line Archer's you could talk about Alpine scen-ery and "The Marble Faun"; and luckily the

Archer Madeira had gone round the Cape.Therefore when a friendly summons came fromMrs. Archer, Mr. Jackson, who was a true eclec-tic, would usually say to his sister: "I've been alittle gouty since my last dinner at the LovellMingotts'—it will do me good to diet at Ade-line's."

Mrs. Archer, who had long been a widow, livedwith her son and daughter in West Twenty-eighth Street. An upper floor was dedicated toNewland, and the two women squeezed them-selves into narrower quarters below. In an un-clouded harmony of tastes and interests theycultivated ferns in Wardian cases, made mac-rame lace and wool embroidery on linen, col-lected American revolutionary glazed ware,subscribed to "Good Words," and read Ouida'snovels for the sake of the Italian atmosphere.(They preferred those about peasant life, be-cause of the descriptions of scenery and thepleasanter sentiments, though in general they

liked novels about people in society, whosemotives and habits were more comprehensible,spoke severely of Dickens, who "had neverdrawn a gentleman," and considered Thackerayless at home in the great world than Bulwer—who, however, was beginning to be thoughtold-fashioned.) Mrs. and Miss Archer wereboth great lovers of scenery. It was what theyprincipally sought and admired on their occa-sional travels abroad; considering architectureand painting as subjects for men, and chieflyfor learned persons who read Ruskin. Mrs.Archer had been born a Newland, and motherand daughter, who were as like as sisters, wereboth, as people said, "true Newlands"; tall, pale,and slightly round-shouldered, with longnoses, sweet smiles and a kind of droopingdistinction like that in certain faded Reynoldsportraits. Their physical resemblance wouldhave been complete if an elderly embonpointhad not stretched Mrs. Archer's black brocade,while Miss Archer's brown and purple poplins

hung, as the years went on, more and moreslackly on her virgin frame.

Mentally, the likeness between them, asNewland was aware, was less complete thantheir identical mannerisms often made it ap-pear. The long habit of living together in mutu-ally dependent intimacy had given them thesame vocabulary, and the same habit of begin-ning their phrases "Mother thinks" or "Janeythinks," according as one or the other wished toadvance an opinion of her own; but in reality,while Mrs. Archer's serene unimaginativenessrested easily in the accepted and familiar, Janeywas subject to starts and aberrations of fancywelling up from springs of suppressed ro-mance.

Mother and daughter adored each other andrevered their son and brother; and Archerloved them with a tenderness made compunc-tious and uncritical by the sense of their exag-gerated admiration, and by his secret satisfac-

tion in it. After all, he thought it a good thingfor a man to have his authority respected in hisown house, even if his sense of humour some-times made him question the force of his man-date.

On this occasion the young man was very surethat Mr. Jackson would rather have had himdine out; but he had his own reasons for notdoing so.

Of course old Jackson wanted to talk aboutEllen Olenska, and of course Mrs. Archer andJaney wanted to hear what he had to tell. Allthree would be slightly embarrassed byNewland's presence, now that his prospectiverelation to the Mingott clan had been madeknown; and the young man waited with anamused curiosity to see how they would turnthe difficulty.

They began, obliquely, by talking about Mrs.Lemuel Struthers.

"It's a pity the Beauforts asked her," Mrs.Archer said gently. "But then Regina alwaysdoes what he tells her; and BEAUFORT—"

"Certain nuances escape Beaufort," said Mr.Jackson, cautiously inspecting the broiled shad,and wondering for the thousandth time whyMrs. Archer's cook always burnt the roe to acinder. (Newland, who had long shared hiswonder, could always detect it in the olderman's expression of melancholy disapproval.)

"Oh, necessarily; Beaufort is a vulgar man," saidMrs. Archer. "My grandfather Newland alwaysused to say to my mother: 'Whatever you do,don't let that fellow Beaufort be introduced tothe girls.' But at least he's had the advantage ofassociating with gentlemen; in England too,they say. It's all very mysterious—" She glancedat Janey and paused. She and Janey knew everyfold of the Beaufort mystery, but in public Mrs.Archer continued to assume that the subjectwas not one for the unmarried.

"But this Mrs. Struthers," Mrs. Archer contin-ued; "what did you say SHE was, Sillerton?"

"Out of a mine: or rather out of the saloon at thehead of the pit. Then with Living Wax-Works,touring New England. After the police brokeTHAT up, they say she lived—" Mr. Jackson inhis turn glanced at Janey, whose eyes began tobulge from under her prominent lids. Therewere still hiatuses for her in Mrs. Struthers'spast.

"Then," Mr. Jackson continued (and Archer sawhe was wondering why no one had told thebutler never to slice cucumbers with a steelknife), "then Lemuel Struthers came along.They say his advertiser used the girl's head forthe shoe-polish posters; her hair's intenselyblack, you know—the Egyptian style. Anyhow,he—eventually—married her." There were vol-umes of innuendo in the way the "eventually"was spaced, and each syllable given its duestress.

"Oh, well—at the pass we've come to nowa-days, it doesn't matter," said Mrs. Archer indif-ferently. The ladies were not really interested inMrs. Struthers just then; the subject of EllenOlenska was too fresh and too absorbing tothem. Indeed, Mrs. Struthers's name had beenintroduced by Mrs. Archer only that she mightpresently be able to say: "And Newland's newcousin—Countess Olenska? Was SHE at theball too?"

There was a faint touch of sarcasm in the refer-ence to her son, and Archer knew it and hadexpected it. Even Mrs. Archer, who was seldomunduly pleased with human events, had beenaltogether glad of her son's engagement. ("Es-pecially after that silly business with Mrs.Rushworth," as she had remarked to Janey,alluding to what had once seemed to Newlanda tragedy of which his soul would always bearthe scar.)

There was no better match in New York thanMay Welland, look at the question from what-ever point you chose. Of course such a mar-riage was only what Newland was entitled to;but young men are so foolish and incalcula-ble—and some women so ensnaring and un-scrupulous—that it was nothing short of amiracle to see one's only son safe past the SirenIsle and in the haven of a blameless domestic-ity.

All this Mrs. Archer felt, and her son knew shefelt; but he knew also that she had been per-turbed by the premature announcement of hisengagement, or rather by its cause; and it wasfor that reason—because on the whole he was atender and indulgent master—that he hadstayed at home that evening. "It's not that Idon't approve of the Mingotts' esprit de corps;but why Newland's engagement should bemixed up with that Olenska woman's comingsand goings I don't see," Mrs. Archer grumbled

to Janey, the only witness of her slight lapsesfrom perfect sweetness.

She had behaved beautifully—and in beautifulbehaviour she was unsurpassed—during thecall on Mrs. Welland; but Newland knew (andhis betrothed doubtless guessed) that allthrough the visit she and Janey were nervouslyon the watch for Madame Olenska's possibleintrusion; and when they left the house to-gether she had permitted herself to say to herson: "I'm thankful that Augusta Welland re-ceived us alone."

These indications of inward disturbance movedArcher the more that he too felt that the Min-gotts had gone a little too far. But, as it wasagainst all the rules of their code that themother and son should ever allude to what wasuppermost in their thoughts, he simply replied:"Oh, well, there's always a phase of family par-ties to be gone through when one gets engaged,and the sooner it's over the better." At which

his mother merely pursed her lips under thelace veil that hung down from her grey velvetbonnet trimmed with frosted grapes.

Her revenge, he felt—her lawful revenge—would be to "draw" Mr. Jackson that eveningon the Countess Olenska; and, having publiclydone his duty as a future member of the Min-gott clan, the young man had no objection tohearing the lady discussed in private—exceptthat the subject was already beginning to borehim.

Mr. Jackson had helped himself to a slice of thetepid filet which the mournful butler hadhanded him with a look as sceptical as his own,and had rejected the mushroom sauce after ascarcely perceptible sniff. He looked baffledand hungry, and Archer reflected that hewould probably finish his meal on Ellen Olen-ska.

Mr. Jackson leaned back in his chair, andglanced up at the candlelit Archers, Newlandsand van der Luydens hanging in dark frameson the dark walls.

"Ah, how your grandfather Archer loved agood dinner, my dear Newland!" he said, hiseyes on the portrait of a plump full-chestedyoung man in a stock and a blue coat, with aview of a white-columned country-house be-hind him. "Well—well—well ... I wonder whathe would have said to all these foreign mar-riages!"

Mrs. Archer ignored the allusion to the ances-tral cuisine and Mr. Jackson continued withdeliberation: "No, she was NOT at the ball."

"Ah—" Mrs. Archer murmured, in a tone thatimplied: "She had that decency."

"Perhaps the Beauforts don't know her," Janeysuggested, with her artless malice.

Mr. Jackson gave a faint sip, as if he had beentasting invisible Madeira. "Mrs. Beaufort maynot—but Beaufort certainly does, for she wasseen walking up Fifth Avenue this afternoonwith him by the whole of New York."

"Mercy—" moaned Mrs. Archer, evidently per-ceiving the uselessness of trying to ascribe theactions of foreigners to a sense of delicacy.

"I wonder if she wears a round hat or a bonnetin the afternoon," Janey speculated. "At the Op-era I know she had on dark blue velvet, per-fectly plain and flat—like a night-gown."

"Janey!" said her mother; and Miss Archerblushed and tried to look audacious.

"It was, at any rate, in better taste not to go tothe ball," Mrs. Archer continued.

A spirit of perversity moved her son to rejoin:"I don't think it was a question of taste with her.

May said she meant to go, and then decidedthat the dress in question wasn't smartenough."

Mrs. Archer smiled at this confirmation of herinference. "Poor Ellen," she simply remarked;adding compassionately: "We must always bearin mind what an eccentric bringing-up MedoraManson gave her. What can you expect of a girlwho was allowed to wear black satin at hercoming-out ball?"

"Ah—don't I remember her in it!" said Mr. Jack-son; adding: "Poor girl!" in the tone of one who,while enjoying the memory, had fully under-stood at the time what the sight portended.

"It's odd," Janey remarked, "that she shouldhave kept such an ugly name as Ellen. I shouldhave changed it to Elaine." She glanced aboutthe table to see the effect of this.

Her brother laughed. "Why Elaine?"

"I don't know; it sounds more—more Polish,"said Janey, blushing.

"It sounds more conspicuous; and that canhardly be what she wishes," said Mrs. Archerdistantly.

"Why not?" broke in her son, growing suddenlyargumentative. "Why shouldn't she be con-spicuous if she chooses? Why should she slinkabout as if it were she who had disgraced her-self? She's 'poor Ellen' certainly, because shehad the bad luck to make a wretched marriage;but I don't see that that's a reason for hiding herhead as if she were the culprit."

"That, I suppose," said Mr. Jackson, specula-tively, "is the line the Mingotts mean to take."

The young man reddened. "I didn't have towait for their cue, if that's what you mean, sir.Madame Olenska has had an unhappy life: thatdoesn't make her an outcast."

"There are rumours," began Mr. Jackson, glanc-ing at Janey.

"Oh, I know: the secretary," the young mantook him up. "Nonsense, mother; Janey'sgrown-up. They say, don't they," he went on,"that the secretary helped her to get away fromher brute of a husband, who kept her practi-cally a prisoner? Well, what if he did? I hopethere isn't a man among us who wouldn't havedone the same in such a case."

Mr. Jackson glanced over his shoulder to say tothe sad butler: "Perhaps ... that sauce ... just alittle, after all—"; then, having helped himself,he remarked: "I'm told she's looking for ahouse. She means to live here."

"I hear she means to get a divorce," said Janeyboldly.

"I hope she will!" Archer exclaimed.

The word had fallen like a bombshell in thepure and tranquil atmosphere of the Archerdining-room. Mrs. Archer raised her delicateeye-brows in the particular curve that signified:"The butler—" and the young man, himselfmindful of the bad taste of discussing such in-timate matters in public, hastily branched offinto an account of his visit to old Mrs. Mingott.

After dinner, according to immemorial custom,Mrs. Archer and Janey trailed their long silkdraperies up to the drawing-room, where,while the gentlemen smoked below stairs, theysat beside a Carcel lamp with an engravedglobe, facing each other across a rosewoodwork-table with a green silk bag under it, andstitched at the two ends of a tapestry band offield-flowers destined to adorn an "occasional"chair in the drawing-room of young Mrs.Newland Archer.

While this rite was in progress in the drawing-room, Archer settled Mr. Jackson in an arm-

chair near the fire in the Gothic library andhanded him a cigar. Mr. Jackson sank into thearmchair with satisfaction, lit his cigar withperfect confidence (it was Newland whobought them), and stretching his thin old an-kles to the coals, said: "You say the secretarymerely helped her to get away, my dear fellow?Well, he was still helping her a year later, then;for somebody met 'em living at Lausanne to-gether."

Newland reddened. "Living together? Well,why not? Who had the right to make her lifeover if she hadn't? I'm sick of the hypocrisy thatwould bury alive a woman of her age if herhusband prefers to live with harlots."

He stopped and turned away angrily to lighthis cigar. "Women ought to be free—as free aswe are," he declared, making a discovery ofwhich he was too irritated to measure the terri-fic consequences.

Mr. Sillerton Jackson stretched his anklesnearer the coals and emitted a sardonic whistle.

"Well," he said after a pause, "apparently CountOlenski takes your view; for I never heard ofhis having lifted a finger to get his wife back."

VI.

That evening, after Mr. Jackson had taken him-self away, and the ladies had retired to theirchintz-curtained bedroom, Newland Archermounted thoughtfully to his own study. A vigi-lant hand had, as usual, kept the fire alive andthe lamp trimmed; and the room, with its rowsand rows of books, its bronze and steel statu-ettes of "The Fencers" on the mantelpiece andits many photographs of famous pictures,looked singularly home-like and welcoming.

As he dropped into his armchair near the firehis eyes rested on a large photograph of MayWelland, which the young girl had given himin the first days of their romance, and whichhad now displaced all the other portraits on thetable. With a new sense of awe he looked at thefrank forehead, serious eyes and gay innocentmouth of the young creature whose soul's cus-todian he was to be. That terrifying product ofthe social system he belonged to and believedin, the young girl who knew nothing and ex-pected everything, looked back at him like astranger through May Welland's familiar fea-tures; and once more it was borne in on himthat marriage was not the safe anchorage hehad been taught to think, but a voyage on un-charted seas.

The case of the Countess Olenska had stirredup old settled convictions and set them driftingdangerously through his mind. His own excla-mation: "Women should be free—as free as we

are," struck to the root of a problem that it wasagreed in his world to regard as non-existent."Nice" women, however wronged, would neverclaim the kind of freedom he meant, and gen-erous-minded men like himself were there-fore—in the heat of argument—the more chiv-alrously ready to concede it to them. Such ver-bal generosities were in fact only a humbug-ging disguise of the inexorable conventions thattied things together and bound people down tothe old pattern. But here he was pledged todefend, on the part of his betrothed's cousin,conduct that, on his own wife's part, wouldjustify him in calling down on her all the thun-ders of Church and State. Of course the di-lemma was purely hypothetical; since he wasn'ta blackguard Polish nobleman, it was absurd tospeculate what his wife's rights would be if heWERE. But Newland Archer was too imagina-tive not to feel that, in his case and May's, thetie might gall for reasons far less gross and pal-pable. What could he and she really know of

each other, since it was his duty, as a "decent"fellow, to conceal his past from her, and hers,as a marriageable girl, to have no past to con-ceal? What if, for some one of the subtler rea-sons that would tell with both of them, theyshould tire of each other, misunderstand orirritate each other? He reviewed his friends'marriages—the supposedly happy ones—andsaw none that answered, even remotely, to thepassionate and tender comradeship which hepictured as his permanent relation with MayWelland. He perceived that such a picture pre-supposed, on her part, the experience, the ver-satility, the freedom of judgment, which shehad been carefully trained not to possess; andwith a shiver of foreboding he saw his marriagebecoming what most of the other marriagesabout him were: a dull association of materialand social interests held together by ignoranceon the one side and hypocrisy on the other.Lawrence Lefferts occurred to him as the hus-band who had most completely realised this

enviable ideal. As became the high-priest ofform, he had formed a wife so completely to hisown convenience that, in the most conspicuousmoments of his frequent love-affairs with othermen's wives, she went about in smiling uncon-sciousness, saying that "Lawrence was sofrightfully strict"; and had been known to blushindignantly, and avert her gaze, when someone alluded in her presence to the fact thatJulius Beaufort (as became a "foreigner" ofdoubtful origin) had what was known in NewYork as "another establishment."

Archer tried to console himself with thethought that he was not quite such an ass asLarry Lefferts, nor May such a simpleton aspoor Gertrude; but the difference was after allone of intelligence and not of standards. In real-ity they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphicworld, where the real thing was never said ordone or even thought, but only represented bya set of arbitrary signs; as when Mrs. Welland,

who knew exactly why Archer had pressed herto announce her daughter's engagement at theBeaufort ball (and had indeed expected him todo no less), yet felt obliged to simulate reluc-tance, and the air of having had her handforced, quite as, in the books on Primitive Manthat people of advanced culture were begin-ning to read, the savage bride is dragged withshrieks from her parents' tent.

The result, of course, was that the young girlwho was the centre of this elaborate system ofmystification remained the more inscrutable forher very frankness and assurance. She wasfrank, poor darling, because she had nothing toconceal, assured because she knew of nothingto be on her guard against; and with no betterpreparation than this, she was to be plungedovernight into what people evasively called"the facts of life."

The young man was sincerely but placidly inlove. He delighted in the radiant good looks of

his betrothed, in her health, her horsemanship,her grace and quickness at games, and the shyinterest in books and ideas that she was begin-ning to develop under his guidance. (She hadadvanced far enough to join him in ridiculingthe Idyls of the King, but not to feel the beautyof Ulysses and the Lotus Eaters.) She wasstraightforward, loyal and brave; she had asense of humour (chiefly proved by her laugh-ing at HIS jokes); and he suspected, in thedepths of her innocently-gazing soul, a glow offeeling that it would be a joy to waken. Butwhen he had gone the brief round of her hereturned discouraged by the thought that allthis frankness and innocence were only an arti-ficial product. Untrained human nature wasnot frank and innocent; it was full of the twistsand defences of an instinctive guile. And he felthimself oppressed by this creation of factitiouspurity, so cunningly manufactured by a con-spiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmoth-ers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was

supposed to be what he wanted, what he had aright to, in order that he might exercise hislordly pleasure in smashing it like an imagemade of snow.

There was a certain triteness in these reflec-tions: they were those habitual to young menon the approach of their wedding day. But theywere generally accompanied by a sense ofcompunction and self-abasement of whichNewland Archer felt no trace. He could notdeplore (as Thackeray's heroes so often exas-perated him by doing) that he had not a blankpage to offer his bride in exchange for the un-blemished one she was to give to him. He couldnot get away from the fact that if he had beenbrought up as she had they would have beenno more fit to find their way about than theBabes in the Wood; nor could he, for all hisanxious cogitations, see any honest reason (any,that is, unconnected with his own momentarypleasure, and the passion of masculine vanity)

why his bride should not have been allowedthe same freedom of experience as himself.

Such questions, at such an hour, were bound todrift through his mind; but he was consciousthat their uncomfortable persistence and preci-sion were due to the inopportune arrival of theCountess Olenska. Here he was, at the verymoment of his betrothal—a moment for purethoughts and cloudless hopes—pitchforkedinto a coil of scandal which raised all the spe-cial problems he would have preferred to letlie. "Hang Ellen Olenska!" he grumbled, as hecovered his fire and began to undress. He couldnot really see why her fate should have theleast bearing on his; yet he dimly felt that hehad only just begun to measure the risks of thechampionship which his engagement hadforced upon him.

A few days later the bolt fell.

The Lovell Mingotts had sent out cards forwhat was known as "a formal dinner" (that is,three extra footmen, two dishes for each course,and a Roman punch in the middle), and hadheaded their invitations with the words "Tomeet the Countess Olenska," in accordancewith the hospitable American fashion, whichtreats strangers as if they were royalties, or atleast as their ambassadors.

The guests had been selected with a boldnessand discrimination in which the initiated rec-ognised the firm hand of Catherine the Great.Associated with such immemorial standbys asthe Selfridge Merrys, who were asked every-where because they always had been, the Beau-forts, on whom there was a claim of relation-ship, and Mr. Sillerton Jackson and his sisterSophy (who went wherever her brother toldher to), were some of the most fashionable andyet most irreproachable of the dominant"young married" set; the Lawrence Leffertses,

Mrs. Lefferts Rushworth (the lovely widow),the Harry Thorleys, the Reggie Chiverses andyoung Morris Dagonet and his wife (who was avan der Luyden). The company indeed wasperfectly assorted, since all the members be-longed to the little inner group of people who,during the long New York season, disportedthemselves together daily and nightly withapparently undiminished zest.

Forty-eight hours later the unbelievable hadhappened; every one had refused the Mingotts'invitation except the Beauforts and old Mr.Jackson and his sister. The intended slight wasemphasised by the fact that even the ReggieChiverses, who were of the Mingott clan, wereamong those inflicting it; and by the uniformwording of the notes, in all of which the writers"regretted that they were unable to accept,"without the mitigating plea of a "previous en-gagement" that ordinary courtesy prescribed.

New York society was, in those days, far toosmall, and too scant in its resources, for everyone in it (including livery-stable-keepers, but-lers and cooks) not to know exactly on whichevenings people were free; and it was thus pos-sible for the recipients of Mrs. Lovell Mingott'sinvitations to make cruelly clear their determi-nation not to meet the Countess Olenska.

The blow was unexpected; but the Mingotts, astheir way was, met it gallantly. Mrs. LovellMingott confided the case to Mrs. Welland,who confided it to Newland Archer; who,aflame at the outrage, appealed passionatelyand authoritatively to his mother; who, after apainful period of inward resistance and out-ward temporising, succumbed to his instances(as she always did), and immediately embrac-ing his cause with an energy redoubled by herprevious hesitations, put on her grey velvetbonnet and said: "I'll go and see Louisa van derLuyden."

The New York of Newland Archer's day was asmall and slippery pyramid, in which, as yet,hardly a fissure had been made or a footholdgained. At its base was a firm foundation ofwhat Mrs. Archer called "plain people"; anhonourable but obscure majority of respectablefamilies who (as in the case of the Spicers or theLeffertses or the Jacksons) had been raisedabove their level by marriage with one of theruling clans. People, Mrs. Archer always said,were not as particular as they used to be; andwith old Catherine Spicer ruling one end ofFifth Avenue, and Julius Beaufort the other,you couldn't expect the old traditions to lastmuch longer.

Firmly narrowing upward from this wealthybut inconspicuous substratum was the compactand dominant group which the Mingotts,Newlands, Chiverses and Mansons so activelyrepresented. Most people imagined them to bethe very apex of the pyramid; but they them-

selves (at least those of Mrs. Archer's genera-tion) were aware that, in the eyes of the profes-sional genealogist, only a still smaller numberof families could lay claim to that eminence.

"Don't tell me," Mrs. Archer would say to herchildren, "all this modern newspaper rubbishabout a New York aristocracy. If there is one,neither the Mingotts nor the Mansons belong toit; no, nor the Newlands or the Chiverses either.Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers werejust respectable English or Dutch merchants,who came to the colonies to make their fortune,and stayed here because they did so well. Oneof your great-grandfathers signed the Declara-tion, and another was a general on Washing-ton's staff, and received General Burgoyne'ssword after the battle of Saratoga. These arethings to be proud of, but they have nothing todo with rank or class. New York has alwaysbeen a commercial community, and there arenot more than three families in it who can claim

an aristocratic origin in the real sense of theword."

Mrs. Archer and her son and daughter, likeevery one else in New York, knew who theseprivileged beings were: the Dagonets of Wash-ington Square, who came of an old Englishcounty family allied with the Pitts and Foxes;the Lannings, who had intermarried with thedescendants of Count de Grasse, and the vander Luydens, direct descendants of the firstDutch governor of Manhattan, and related bypre-revolutionary marriages to several mem-bers of the French and British aristocracy.

The Lannings survived only in the person oftwo very old but lively Miss Lannings, wholived cheerfully and reminiscently among fam-ily portraits and Chippendale; the Dagonetswere a considerable clan, allied to the bestnames in Baltimore and Philadelphia; but thevan der Luydens, who stood above all of them,had faded into a kind of super-terrestrial twi-

light, from which only two figures impressivelyemerged; those of Mr. and Mrs. Henry van derLuyden.

Mrs. Henry van der Luyden had been LouisaDagonet, and her mother had been the grand-daughter of Colonel du Lac, of an old ChannelIsland family, who had fought under Corn-wallis and had settled in Maryland, after thewar, with his bride, Lady Angelica Trevenna,fifth daughter of the Earl of St. Austrey. The tiebetween the Dagonets, the du Lacs of Mary-land, and their aristocratic Cornish kinsfolk, theTrevennas, had always remained close andcordial. Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden hadmore than once paid long visits to the presenthead of the house of Trevenna, the Duke of St.Austrey, at his country-seat in Cornwall and atSt. Austrey in Gloucestershire; and his Gracehad frequently announced his intention ofsome day returning their visit (without theDuchess, who feared the Atlantic).

Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden divided theirtime between Trevenna, their place in Mary-land, and Skuytercliff, the great estate on theHudson which had been one of the colonialgrants of the Dutch government to the famousfirst Governor, and of which Mr. van der Luy-den was still "Patroon." Their large solemnhouse in Madison Avenue was seldom opened,and when they came to town they received in itonly their most intimate friends.

"I wish you would go with me, Newland," hismother said, suddenly pausing at the door ofthe Brown coupe. "Louisa is fond of you; and ofcourse it's on account of dear May that I'm tak-ing this step—and also because, if we don't allstand together, there'll be no such thing as So-ciety left."

VII.

Mrs. Henry van der Luyden listened in silenceto her cousin Mrs. Archer's narrative.

It was all very well to tell yourself in advancethat Mrs. van der Luyden was always silent,and that, though non-committal by nature andtraining, she was very kind to the people shereally liked. Even personal experience of thesefacts was not always a protection from the chillthat descended on one in the high-ceilingedwhite-walled Madison Avenue drawing-room,with the pale brocaded armchairs so obviouslyuncovered for the occasion, and the gauze stillveiling the ormolu mantel ornaments and thebeautiful old carved frame of Gainsborough's"Lady Angelica du Lac."

Mrs. van der Luyden's portrait by Huntington(in black velvet and Venetian point) faced thatof her lovely ancestress. It was generally con-

sidered "as fine as a Cabanel," and, thoughtwenty years had elapsed since its execution,was still "a perfect likeness." Indeed the Mrs.van der Luyden who sat beneath it listening toMrs. Archer might have been the twin-sister ofthe fair and still youngish woman droopingagainst a gilt armchair before a green rep cur-tain. Mrs. van der Luyden still wore black vel-vet and Venetian point when she went intosociety—or rather (since she never dined out)when she threw open her own doors to receiveit. Her fair hair, which had faded without turn-ing grey, was still parted in flat overlappingpoints on her forehead, and the straight nosethat divided her pale blue eyes was only a littlemore pinched about the nostrils than when theportrait had been painted. She always, indeed,struck Newland Archer as having been rathergruesomely preserved in the airless atmosphereof a perfectly irreproachable existence, as bod-ies caught in glaciers keep for years a rosy life-in-death.

Like all his family, he esteemed and admiredMrs. van der Luyden; but he found her gentlebending sweetness less approachable than thegrimness of some of his mother's old aunts,fierce spinsters who said "No" on principle be-fore they knew what they were going to beasked.

Mrs. van der Luyden's attitude said neither yesnor no, but always appeared to incline to clem-ency till her thin lips, wavering into the shadowof a smile, made the almost invariable reply: "Ishall first have to talk this over with my hus-band."

She and Mr. van der Luyden were so exactlyalike that Archer often wondered how, afterforty years of the closest conjugality, two suchmerged identities ever separated themselvesenough for anything as controversial as a talk-ing-over. But as neither had ever reached a de-cision without prefacing it by this mysteriousconclave, Mrs. Archer and her son, having set

forth their case, waited resignedly for the famil-iar phrase.

Mrs. van der Luyden, however, who had sel-dom surprised any one, now surprised them byreaching her long hand toward the bell-rope.

"I think," she said, "I should like Henry to hearwhat you have told me."

A footman appeared, to whom she gravelyadded: "If Mr. van der Luyden has finishedreading the newspaper, please ask him to bekind enough to come."

She said "reading the newspaper" in the tone inwhich a Minister's wife might have said: "Pre-siding at a Cabinet meeting"—not from anyarrogance of mind, but because the habit of alife-time, and the attitude of her friends andrelations, had led her to consider Mr. van derLuyden's least gesture as having an almost sac-erdotal importance.

Her promptness of action showed that she con-sidered the case as pressing as Mrs. Archer;but, lest she should be thought to have commit-ted herself in advance, she added, with thesweetest look: "Henry always enjoys seeingyou, dear Adeline; and he will wish to con-gratulate Newland."

The double doors had solemnly reopened andbetween them appeared Mr. Henry van derLuyden, tall, spare and frock-coated, withfaded fair hair, a straight nose like his wife'sand the same look of frozen gentleness in eyesthat were merely pale grey instead of pale blue.

Mr. van der Luyden greeted Mrs. Archer withcousinly affability, proffered to Newland low-voiced congratulations couched in the samelanguage as his wife's, and seated himself inone of the brocade armchairs with the simplic-ity of a reigning sovereign.

"I had just finished reading the Times," he said,laying his long finger-tips together. "In townmy mornings are so much occupied that I findit more convenient to read the newspapers afterluncheon."

"Ah, there's a great deal to be said for thatplan—indeed I think my uncle Egmont used tosay he found it less agitating not to read themorning papers till after dinner," said Mrs.Archer responsively.

"Yes: my good father abhorred hurry. But nowwe live in a constant rush," said Mr. van derLuyden in measured tones, looking with pleas-ant deliberation about the large shrouded roomwhich to Archer was so complete an image ofits owners.

"But I hope you HAD finished your reading,Henry?" his wife interposed.

"Quite—quite," he reassured her.

"Then I should like Adeline to tell you—"

"Oh, it's really Newland's story," said hismother smiling; and proceeded to rehearseonce more the monstrous tale of the affrontinflicted on Mrs. Lovell Mingott.

"Of course," she ended, "Augusta Welland andMary Mingott both felt that, especially in viewof Newland's engagement, you and HenryOUGHT TO KNOW."

"Ah—" said Mr. van der Luyden, drawing adeep breath.

There was a silence during which the tick of themonumental ormolu clock on the white marblemantelpiece grew as loud as the boom of aminute-gun. Archer contemplated with awe thetwo slender faded figures, seated side by sidein a kind of viceregal rigidity, mouthpieces ofsome remote ancestral authority which fatecompelled them to wield, when they would so

much rather have lived in simplicity and seclu-sion, digging invisible weeds out of the perfectlawns of Skuytercliff, and playing Patience to-gether in the evenings.

Mr. van der Luyden was the first to speak.

"You really think this is due to some—someintentional interference of Lawrence Lefferts's?"he enquired, turning to Archer.

"I'm certain of it, sir. Larry has been going itrather harder than usual lately—if cousinLouisa won't mind my mentioning it—havingrather a stiff affair with the postmaster's wife intheir village, or some one of that sort; andwhenever poor Gertrude Lefferts begins tosuspect anything, and he's afraid of trouble, hegets up a fuss of this kind, to show how aw-fully moral he is, and talks at the top of hisvoice about the impertinence of inviting hiswife to meet people he doesn't wish her toknow. He's simply using Madame Olenska as a

lightning-rod; I've seen him try the same thingoften before."

"The LEFFERTSES!—" said Mrs. van der Luy-den.

"The LEFFERTSES!—" echoed Mrs. Archer."What would uncle Egmont have said of Law-rence Lefferts's pronouncing on anybody's so-cial position? It shows what Society has cometo."

"We'll hope it has not quite come to that," saidMr. van der Luyden firmly.

"Ah, if only you and Louisa went out more!"sighed Mrs. Archer.

But instantly she became aware of her mistake.The van der Luydens were morbidly sensitiveto any criticism of their secluded existence.They were the arbiters of fashion, the Court oflast Appeal, and they knew it, and bowed to

their fate. But being shy and retiring persons,with no natural inclination for their part, theylived as much as possible in the sylvan solitudeof Skuytercliff, and when they came to town,declined all invitations on the plea of Mrs. vander Luyden's health.

Newland Archer came to his mother's rescue."Everybody in New York knows what you andcousin Louisa represent. That's why Mrs. Min-gott felt she ought not to allow this slight onCountess Olenska to pass without consultingyou."

Mrs. van der Luyden glanced at her husband,who glanced back at her.

"It is the principle that I dislike," said Mr. vander Luyden. "As long as a member of a well-known family is backed up by that family itshould be considered—final."

"It seems so to me," said his wife, as if she wereproducing a new thought.

"I had no idea," Mr. van der Luyden continued,"that things had come to such a pass." Hepaused, and looked at his wife again. "It occursto me, my dear, that the Countess Olenska isalready a sort of relation—through MedoraManson's first husband. At any rate, she will bewhen Newland marries." He turned toward theyoung man. "Have you read this morning'sTimes, Newland?"

"Why, yes, sir," said Archer, who usually tossedoff half a dozen papers with his morning coffee.

Husband and wife looked at each other again.Their pale eyes clung together in prolongedand serious consultation; then a faint smile flut-tered over Mrs. van der Luyden's face. She hadevidently guessed and approved.

Mr. van der Luyden turned to Mrs. Archer. "IfLouisa's health allowed her to dine out—I wishyou would say to Mrs. Lovell Mingott—sheand I would have been happy to—er—fill theplaces of the Lawrence Leffertses at her din-ner." He paused to let the irony of this sink in."As you know, this is impossible." Mrs. Archersounded a sympathetic assent. "But Newlandtells me he has read this morning's Times;therefore he has probably seen that Louisa'srelative, the Duke of St. Austrey, arrives nextweek on the Russia. He is coming to enter hisnew sloop, the Guinevere, in next summer'sInternational Cup Race; and also to have a littlecanvasback shooting at Trevenna." Mr. van derLuyden paused again, and continued with in-creasing benevolence: "Before taking him downto Maryland we are inviting a few friends tomeet him here—only a little dinner—with areception afterward. I am sure Louisa will be asglad as I am if Countess Olenska will let usinclude her among our guests." He got up, bent

his long body with a stiff friendliness towardhis cousin, and added: "I think I have Louisa'sauthority for saying that she will herself leavethe invitation to dine when she drives out pres-ently: with our cards—of course with ourcards."

Mrs. Archer, who knew this to be a hint that theseventeen-hand chestnuts which were neverkept waiting were at the door, rose with a hur-ried murmur of thanks. Mrs. van der Luydenbeamed on her with the smile of Esther inter-ceding with Ahasuerus; but her husband raiseda protesting hand.

"There is nothing to thank me for, dear Adeline;nothing whatever. This kind of thing must nothappen in New York; it shall not, as long as Ican help it," he pronounced with sovereigngentleness as he steered his cousins to the door.

Two hours later, every one knew that the greatC-spring barouche in which Mrs. van der Luy-

den took the air at all seasons had been seen atold Mrs. Mingott's door, where a large squareenvelope was handed in; and that evening atthe Opera Mr. Sillerton Jackson was able tostate that the envelope contained a card invit-ing the Countess Olenska to the dinner whichthe van der Luydens were giving the followingweek for their cousin, the Duke of St. Austrey.

Some of the younger men in the club box ex-changed a smile at this announcement, andglanced sideways at Lawrence Lefferts, who satcarelessly in the front of the box, pulling hislong fair moustache, and who remarked withauthority, as the soprano paused: "No one butPatti ought to attempt the Sonnambula."

VIII.

It was generally agreed in New York that theCountess Olenska had "lost her looks."

She had appeared there first, in NewlandArcher's boyhood, as a brilliantly pretty littlegirl of nine or ten, of whom people said thatshe "ought to be painted." Her parents had beencontinental wanderers, and after a roamingbabyhood she had lost them both, and beentaken in charge by her aunt, Medora Manson,also a wanderer, who was herself returning toNew York to "settle down."

Poor Medora, repeatedly widowed, was alwayscoming home to settle down (each time in a lessexpensive house), and bringing with her a newhusband or an adopted child; but after a fewmonths she invariably parted from her hus-band or quarrelled with her ward, and, havinggot rid of her house at a loss, set out again on

her wanderings. As her mother had been aRushworth, and her last unhappy marriage hadlinked her to one of the crazy Chiverses, NewYork looked indulgently on her eccentricities;but when she returned with her little orphanedniece, whose parents had been popular in spiteof their regrettable taste for travel, peoplethought it a pity that the pretty child should bein such hands.

Every one was disposed to be kind to littleEllen Mingott, though her dusky red cheeksand tight curls gave her an air of gaiety thatseemed unsuitable in a child who should stillhave been in black for her parents. It was one ofthe misguided Medora's many peculiarities toflout the unalterable rules that regulatedAmerican mourning, and when she steppedfrom the steamer her family were scandalisedto see that the crape veil she wore for her ownbrother was seven inches shorter than those ofher sisters-in-law, while little Ellen was in crim-

son merino and amber beads, like a gipsyfoundling.

But New York had so long resigned itself toMedora that only a few old ladies shook theirheads over Ellen's gaudy clothes, while herother relations fell under the charm of her highcolour and high spirits. She was a fearless andfamiliar little thing, who asked disconcertingquestions, made precocious comments, andpossessed outlandish arts, such as dancing aSpanish shawl dance and singing Neapolitanlove-songs to a guitar. Under the direction ofher aunt (whose real name was Mrs. ThorleyChivers, but who, having received a Papal title,had resumed her first husband's patronymic,and called herself the Marchioness Manson,because in Italy she could turn it into Manzoni)the little girl received an expensive but inco-herent education, which included "drawingfrom the model," a thing never dreamed of be-

fore, and playing the piano in quintets withprofessional musicians.

Of course no good could come of this; andwhen, a few years later, poor Chivers finallydied in a madhouse, his widow (draped instrange weeds) again pulled up stakes and de-parted with Ellen, who had grown into a tallbony girl with conspicuous eyes. For some timeno more was heard of them; then news came ofEllen's marriage to an immensely rich Polishnobleman of legendary fame, whom she hadmet at a ball at the Tuileries, and who was saidto have princely establishments in Paris, Niceand Florence, a yacht at Cowes, and manysquare miles of shooting in Transylvania. Shedisappeared in a kind of sulphurous apotheo-sis, and when a few years later Medora againcame back to New York, subdued, impover-ished, mourning a third husband, and in questof a still smaller house, people wondered thather rich niece had not been able to do some-

thing for her. Then came the news that Ellen'sown marriage had ended in disaster, and thatshe was herself returning home to seek rest andoblivion among her kinsfolk.

These things passed through Newland Archer'smind a week later as he watched the CountessOlenska enter the van der Luyden drawing-room on the evening of the momentous dinner.The occasion was a solemn one, and he won-dered a little nervously how she would carry itoff. She came rather late, one hand still un-gloved, and fastening a bracelet about herwrist; yet she entered without any appearanceof haste or embarrassment the drawing-room inwhich New York's most chosen company wassomewhat awfully assembled.

In the middle of the room she paused, lookingabout her with a grave mouth and smiling eyes;and in that instant Newland Archer rejected thegeneral verdict on her looks. It was true thather early radiance was gone. The red cheeks

had paled; she was thin, worn, a little older-looking than her age, which must have beennearly thirty. But there was about her the mys-terious authority of beauty, a sureness in thecarriage of the head, the movement of the eyes,which, without being in the least theatrical,struck his as highly trained and full of a con-scious power. At the same time she was sim-pler in manner than most of the ladies present,and many people (as he heard afterward fromJaney) were disappointed that her appearancewas not more "stylish"—for stylishness waswhat New York most valued. It was, perhaps,Archer reflected, because her early vivacity haddisappeared; because she was so quiet—quietin her movements, her voice, and the tones ofher low-pitched voice. New York had expectedsomething a good deal more reasonant in ayoung woman with such a history.

The dinner was a somewhat formidable busi-ness. Dining with the van der Luydens was at

best no light matter, and dining there with aDuke who was their cousin was almost a reli-gious solemnity. It pleased Archer to think thatonly an old New Yorker could perceive theshade of difference (to New York) between be-ing merely a Duke and being the van der Luy-dens' Duke. New York took stray noblemencalmly, and even (except in the Struthers set)with a certain distrustful hauteur; but whenthey presented such credentials as these theywere received with an old-fashioned cordialitythat they would have been greatly mistaken inascribing solely to their standing in Debrett. Itwas for just such distinctions that the youngman cherished his old New York even while hesmiled at it.

The van der Luydens had done their best toemphasise the importance of the occasion. Thedu Lac Sevres and the Trevenna George II platewere out; so was the van der Luyden "Lowest-oft" (East India Company) and the Dagonet

Crown Derby. Mrs. van der Luyden lookedmore than ever like a Cabanel, and Mrs.Archer, in her grandmother's seed-pearls andemeralds, reminded her son of an Isabey minia-ture. All the ladies had on their handsomestjewels, but it was characteristic of the houseand the occasion that these were mostly inrather heavy old-fashioned settings; and oldMiss Lanning, who had been persuaded tocome, actually wore her mother's cameos and aSpanish blonde shawl.

The Countess Olenska was the only youngwoman at the dinner; yet, as Archer scannedthe smooth plump elderly faces between theirdiamond necklaces and towering ostrich feath-ers, they struck him as curiously immaturecompared with hers. It frightened him to thinkwhat must have gone to the making of her eyes.

The Duke of St. Austrey, who sat at his host-ess's right, was naturally the chief figure of theevening. But if the Countess Olenska was less

conspicuous than had been hoped, the Dukewas almost invisible. Being a well-bred man hehad not (like another recent ducal visitor) cometo the dinner in a shooting-jacket; but his eve-ning clothes were so shabby and baggy, and hewore them with such an air of their beinghomespun, that (with his stooping way of sit-ting, and the vast beard spreading over hisshirt-front) he hardly gave the appearance ofbeing in dinner attire. He was short, round-shouldered, sunburnt, with a thick nose, smalleyes and a sociable smile; but he seldom spoke,and when he did it was in such low tones that,despite the frequent silences of expectationabout the table, his remarks were lost to all buthis neighbours.

When the men joined the ladies after dinner theDuke went straight up to the Countess Olen-ska, and they sat down in a corner and plungedinto animated talk. Neither seemed aware thatthe Duke should first have paid his respects to

Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Headly Chivers,and the Countess have conversed with thatamiable hypochondriac, Mr. Urban Dagonet ofWashington Square, who, in order to have thepleasure of meeting her, had broken throughhis fixed rule of not dining out between Janu-ary and April. The two chatted together fornearly twenty minutes; then the Countess roseand, walking alone across the wide drawing-room, sat down at Newland Archer's side.

It was not the custom in New York drawing-rooms for a lady to get up and walk away fromone gentleman in order to seek the company ofanother. Etiquette required that she shouldwait, immovable as an idol, while the men whowished to converse with her succeeded eachother at her side. But the Countess was appar-ently unaware of having broken any rule; shesat at perfect ease in a corner of the sofa besideArcher, and looked at him with the kindesteyes.

"I want you to talk to me about May," she said.

Instead of answering her he asked: "You knewthe Duke before?"

"Oh, yes—we used to see him every winter atNice. He's very fond of gambling—he used tocome to the house a great deal." She said it inthe simplest manner, as if she had said: "He'sfond of wild-flowers"; and after a moment sheadded candidly: "I think he's the dullest man Iever met."

This pleased her companion so much that heforgot the slight shock her previous remark hadcaused him. It was undeniably exciting to meeta lady who found the van der Luydens' Dukedull, and dared to utter the opinion. He longedto question her, to hear more about the life ofwhich her careless words had given him soilluminating a glimpse; but he feared to touchon distressing memories, and before he could

think of anything to say she had strayed backto her original subject.

"May is a darling; I've seen no young girl inNew York so handsome and so intelligent. Areyou very much in love with her?"

Newland Archer reddened and laughed. "Asmuch as a man can be."

She continued to consider him thoughtfully, asif not to miss any shade of meaning in what hesaid, "Do you think, then, there is a limit?"

"To being in love? If there is, I haven't found it!"

She glowed with sympathy. "Ah—it's reallyand truly a romance?"

"The most romantic of romances!"

"How delightful! And you found it all out foryourselves—it was not in the least arranged foryou?"

Archer looked at her incredulously. "Have youforgotten," he asked with a smile, "that in ourcountry we don't allow our marriages to bearranged for us?"

A dusky blush rose to her cheek, and he in-stantly regretted his words.

"Yes," she answered, "I'd forgotten. You mustforgive me if I sometimes make these mistakes.I don't always remember that everything hereis good that was—that was bad where I'vecome from." She looked down at her Viennesefan of eagle feathers, and he saw that her lipstrembled.

"I'm so sorry," he said impulsively; "but youARE among friends here, you know."

"Yes—I know. Wherever I go I have that feel-ing. That's why I came home. I want to forgeteverything else, to become a complete Ameri-can again, like the Mingotts and Wellands, and

you and your delightful mother, and all theother good people here tonight. Ah, here's Mayarriving, and you will want to hurry away toher," she added, but without moving; and hereyes turned back from the door to rest on theyoung man's face.

The drawing-rooms were beginning to fill upwith after-dinner guests, and following Ma-dame Olenska's glance Archer saw May Wel-land entering with her mother. In her dress ofwhite and silver, with a wreath of silver blos-soms in her hair, the tall girl looked like aDiana just alight from the chase.

"Oh," said Archer, "I have so many rivals; yousee she's already surrounded. There's the Dukebeing introduced."

"Then stay with me a little longer," MadameOlenska said in a low tone, just touching hisknee with her plumed fan. It was the lightesttouch, but it thrilled him like a caress.

"Yes, let me stay," he answered in the sametone, hardly knowing what he said; but justthen Mr. van der Luyden came up, followed byold Mr. Urban Dagonet. The Countess greetedthem with her grave smile, and Archer, feelinghis host's admonitory glance on him, rose andsurrendered his seat.

Madame Olenska held out her hand as if to bidhim goodbye.

"Tomorrow, then, after five—I shall expectyou," she said; and then turned back to makeroom for Mr. Dagonet.

"Tomorrow—" Archer heard himself repeating,though there had been no engagement, andduring their talk she had given him no hint thatshe wished to see him again.

As he moved away he saw Lawrence Lefferts,tall and resplendent, leading his wife up to beintroduced; and heard Gertrude Lefferts say, as

she beamed on the Countess with her largeunperceiving smile: "But I think we used to goto dancing-school together when we were chil-dren—." Behind her, waiting their turn to namethemselves to the Countess, Archer noticed anumber of the recalcitrant couples who haddeclined to meet her at Mrs. Lovell Mingott's.As Mrs. Archer remarked: when the van derLuydens chose, they knew how to give a les-son. The wonder was that they chose so sel-dom.

The young man felt a touch on his arm and sawMrs. van der Luyden looking down on himfrom the pure eminence of black velvet and thefamily diamonds. "It was good of you, dearNewland, to devote yourself so unselfishly toMadame Olenska. I told your cousin Henry hemust really come to the rescue."

He was aware of smiling at her vaguely, andshe added, as if condescending to his naturalshyness: "I've never seen May looking lovelier.

The Duke thinks her the handsomest girl in theroom."

IX.

The Countess Olenska had said "after five"; andat half after the hour Newland Archer rang thebell of the peeling stucco house with a giantwisteria throttling its feeble cast-iron balcony,which she had hired, far down West Twenty-third Street, from the vagabond Medora.

It was certainly a strange quarter to have set-tled in. Small dress-makers, bird-stuffers and"people who wrote" were her nearestneighbours; and further down the dishevelledstreet Archer recognised a dilapidated woodenhouse, at the end of a paved path, in which awriter and journalist called Winsett, whom heused to come across now and then, had men-

tioned that he lived. Winsett did not invitepeople to his house; but he had once pointed itout to Archer in the course of a nocturnal stroll,and the latter had asked himself, with a littleshiver, if the humanities were so meanlyhoused in other capitals.

Madame Olenska's own dwelling was re-deemed from the same appearance only by alittle more paint about the window-frames; andas Archer mustered its modest front he said tohimself that the Polish Count must have robbedher of her fortune as well as of her illusions.

The young man had spent an unsatisfactoryday. He had lunched with the Wellands, hop-ing afterward to carry off May for a walk in thePark. He wanted to have her to himself, to tellher how enchanting she had looked the nightbefore, and how proud he was of her, and topress her to hasten their marriage. But Mrs.Welland had firmly reminded him that theround of family visits was not half over, and,

when he hinted at advancing the date of thewedding, had raised reproachful eye-browsand sighed out: "Twelve dozen of everything—hand-embroidered—"

Packed in the family landau they rolled fromone tribal doorstep to another, and Archer,when the afternoon's round was over, partedfrom his betrothed with the feeling that he hadbeen shown off like a wild animal cunninglytrapped. He supposed that his readings in an-thropology caused him to take such a coarseview of what was after all a simple and naturaldemonstration of family feeling; but when heremembered that the Wellands did not expectthe wedding to take place till the followingautumn, and pictured what his life would betill then, a dampness fell upon his spirit.

"Tomorrow," Mrs. Welland called after him,"we'll do the Chiverses and the Dallases"; andhe perceived that she was going through their

two families alphabetically, and that they wereonly in the first quarter of the alphabet.

He had meant to tell May of the CountessOlenska's request—her command, rather—thathe should call on her that afternoon; but in thebrief moments when they were alone he hadhad more pressing things to say. Besides, itstruck him as a little absurd to allude to thematter. He knew that May most particularlywanted him to be kind to her cousin; was it notthat wish which had hastened the announce-ment of their engagement? It gave him an oddsensation to reflect that, but for the Countess'sarrival, he might have been, if not still a freeman, at least a man less irrevocably pledged.But May had willed it so, and he felt himselfsomehow relieved of further responsibility—and therefore at liberty, if he chose, to call onher cousin without telling her.

As he stood on Madame Olenska's thresholdcuriosity was his uppermost feeling. He was

puzzled by the tone in which she had sum-moned him; he concluded that she was lesssimple than she seemed.

The door was opened by a swarthy foreign-looking maid, with a prominent bosom under agay neckerchief, whom he vaguely fancied tobe Sicilian. She welcomed him with all herwhite teeth, and answering his enquiries by ahead-shake of incomprehension led himthrough the narrow hall into a low firelit draw-ing-room. The room was empty, and she lefthim, for an appreciable time, to wonderwhether she had gone to find her mistress, orwhether she had not understood what he wasthere for, and thought it might be to wind theclock—of which he perceived that the onlyvisible specimen had stopped. He knew thatthe southern races communicated with eachother in the language of pantomime, and wasmortified to find her shrugs and smiles so unin-telligible. At length she returned with a lamp;

and Archer, having meanwhile put together aphrase out of Dante and Petrarch, evoked theanswer: "La signora e fuori; ma verra subito";which he took to mean: "She's out—but you'llsoon see."

What he saw, meanwhile, with the help of thelamp, was the faded shadowy charm of a roomunlike any room he had known. He knew thatthe Countess Olenska had brought some of herpossessions with her—bits of wreckage, shecalled them—and these, he supposed, wererepresented by some small slender tables ofdark wood, a delicate little Greek bronze on thechimney-piece, and a stretch of red damasknailed on the discoloured wallpaper behind acouple of Italian-looking pictures in old frames.

Newland Archer prided himself on his knowl-edge of Italian art. His boyhood had been satu-rated with Ruskin, and he had read all the lat-est books: John Addington Symonds, VernonLee's "Euphorion," the essays of P. G. Hamer-

ton, and a wonderful new volume called "TheRenaissance" by Walter Pater. He talked easilyof Botticelli, and spoke of Fra Angelico with afaint condescension. But these pictures bewil-dered him, for they were like nothing that hewas accustomed to look at (and therefore ableto see) when he travelled in Italy; and perhaps,also, his powers of observation were impairedby the oddness of finding himself in thisstrange empty house, where apparently no oneexpected him. He was sorry that he had nottold May Welland of Countess Olenska's re-quest, and a little disturbed by the thought thathis betrothed might come in to see her cousin.What would she think if she found him sittingthere with the air of intimacy implied by wait-ing alone in the dusk at a lady's fireside?

But since he had come he meant to wait; and hesank into a chair and stretched his feet to thelogs.

It was odd to have summoned him in that way,and then forgotten him; but Archer felt morecurious than mortified. The atmosphere of theroom was so different from any he had everbreathed that self-consciousness vanished inthe sense of adventure. He had been before indrawing-rooms hung with red damask, withpictures "of the Italian school"; what struck himwas the way in which Medora Manson'sshabby hired house, with its blighted back-ground of pampas grass and Rogers statuettes,had, by a turn of the hand, and the skilful useof a few properties, been transformed intosomething intimate, "foreign," subtly sugges-tive of old romantic scenes and sentiments. Hetried to analyse the trick, to find a clue to it inthe way the chairs and tables were grouped, inthe fact that only two Jacqueminot roses (ofwhich nobody ever bought less than a dozen)had been placed in the slender vase at his el-bow, and in the vague pervading perfume thatwas not what one put on handkerchiefs, but

rather like the scent of some far-off bazaar, asmell made up of Turkish coffee and ambergrisand dried roses.

His mind wandered away to the question ofwhat May's drawing-room would look like. Heknew that Mr. Welland, who was behaving"very handsomely," already had his eye on anewly built house in East Thirty-ninth Street.The neighbourhood was thought remote, andthe house was built in a ghastly greenish-yellow stone that the younger architects werebeginning to employ as a protest against thebrownstone of which the uniform hue coatedNew York like a cold chocolate sauce; but theplumbing was perfect. Archer would haveliked to travel, to put off the housing question;but, though the Wellands approved of an ex-tended European honeymoon (perhaps even awinter in Egypt), they were firm as to the needof a house for the returning couple. The youngman felt that his fate was sealed: for the rest of

his life he would go up every evening betweenthe cast-iron railings of that greenish-yellowdoorstep, and pass through a Pompeian vesti-bule into a hall with a wainscoting of varnishedyellow wood. But beyond that his imaginationcould not travel. He knew the drawing-roomabove had a bay window, but he could notfancy how May would deal with it. She submit-ted cheerfully to the purple satin and yellowtuftings of the Welland drawing-room, to itssham Buhl tables and gilt vitrines full of mod-ern Saxe. He saw no reason to suppose that shewould want anything different in her ownhouse; and his only comfort was to reflect thatshe would probably let him arrange his libraryas he pleased—which would be, of course, with"sincere" Eastlake furniture, and the plain newbookcases without glass doors.

The round-bosomed maid came in, drew thecurtains, pushed back a log, and said consol-ingly: "Verra—verra." When she had gone

Archer stood up and began to wander about.Should he wait any longer? His position wasbecoming rather foolish. Perhaps he had mis-understood Madame Olenska—perhaps shehad not invited him after all.

Down the cobblestones of the quiet street camethe ring of a stepper's hoofs; they stopped be-fore the house, and he caught the opening of acarriage door. Parting the curtains he lookedout into the early dusk. A street-lamp facedhim, and in its light he saw Julius Beaufort'scompact English brougham, drawn by a bigroan, and the banker descending from it, andhelping out Madame Olenska.

Beaufort stood, hat in hand, saying somethingwhich his companion seemed to negative; thenthey shook hands, and he jumped into his car-riage while she mounted the steps.

When she entered the room she showed nosurprise at seeing Archer there; surprise

seemed the emotion that she was least addictedto.

"How do you like my funny house?" she asked."To me it's like heaven."

As she spoke she untied her little velvet bonnetand tossing it away with her long cloak stoodlooking at him with meditative eyes.

"You've arranged it delightfully," he rejoined,alive to the flatness of the words, but impris-oned in the conventional by his consumingdesire to be simple and striking.

"Oh, it's a poor little place. My relations despiseit. But at any rate it's less gloomy than the vander Luydens'."

The words gave him an electric shock, for fewwere the rebellious spirits who would havedared to call the stately home of the van derLuydens gloomy. Those privileged to enter it

shivered there, and spoke of it as "handsome."But suddenly he was glad that she had givenvoice to the general shiver.

"It's delicious—what you've done here," he re-peated.

"I like the little house," she admitted; "but Isuppose what I like is the blessedness of itsbeing here, in my own country and my owntown; and then, of being alone in it." She spokeso low that he hardly heard the last phrase; butin his awkwardness he took it up.

"You like so much to be alone?"

"Yes; as long as my friends keep me from feel-ing lonely." She sat down near the fire, said:"Nastasia will bring the tea presently," andsigned to him to return to his armchair, adding:"I see you've already chosen your corner."

Leaning back, she folded her arms behind herhead, and looked at the fire under droopinglids.

"This is the hour I like best—don't you?"

A proper sense of his dignity caused him toanswer: "I was afraid you'd forgotten the hour.Beaufort must have been very engrossing."

She looked amused. "Why—have you waitedlong? Mr. Beaufort took me to see a number ofhouses—since it seems I'm not to be allowed tostay in this one." She appeared to dismiss bothBeaufort and himself from her mind, and wenton: "I've never been in a city where there seemsto be such a feeling against living in des quar-tiers excentriques. What does it matter whereone lives? I'm told this street is respectable."

"It's not fashionable."

"Fashionable! Do you all think so much of that?Why not make one's own fashions? But I sup-pose I've lived too independently; at any rate, Iwant to do what you all do—I want to feelcared for and safe."

He was touched, as he had been the eveningbefore when she spoke of her need of guidance.

"That's what your friends want you to feel.New York's an awfully safe place," he addedwith a flash of sarcasm.

"Yes, isn't it? One feels that," she cried, missingthe mockery. "Being here is like—like—beingtaken on a holiday when one has been a goodlittle girl and done all one's lessons."

The analogy was well meant, but did not alto-gether please him. He did not mind being flip-pant about New York, but disliked to hear anyone else take the same tone. He wondered ifshe did not begin to see what a powerful en-

gine it was, and how nearly it had crushed her.The Lovell Mingotts' dinner, patched up in ex-tremis out of all sorts of social odds and ends,ought to have taught her the narrowness of herescape; but either she had been all along un-aware of having skirted disaster, or else shehad lost sight of it in the triumph of the van derLuyden evening. Archer inclined to the formertheory; he fancied that her New York was stillcompletely undifferentiated, and the conjecturenettled him.

"Last night," he said, "New York laid itself outfor you. The van der Luydens do nothing byhalves."

"No: how kind they are! It was such a niceparty. Every one seems to have such an esteemfor them."

The terms were hardly adequate; she mighthave spoken in that way of a tea-party at thedear old Miss Lannings'.

"The van der Luydens," said Archer, feelinghimself pompous as he spoke, "are the mostpowerful influence in New York society. Unfor-tunately—owing to her health—they receivevery seldom."

She unclasped her hands from behind her head,and looked at him meditatively.

"Isn't that perhaps the reason?"

"The reason—?"

"For their great influence; that they make them-selves so rare."

He coloured a little, stared at her—and sud-denly felt the penetration of the remark. At astroke she had pricked the van der Luydensand they collapsed. He laughed, and sacrificedthem.

Nastasia brought the tea, with handleless Japa-nese cups and little covered dishes, placing thetray on a low table.

"But you'll explain these things to me—you'lltell me all I ought to know," Madame Olenskacontinued, leaning forward to hand him hiscup.

"It's you who are telling me; opening my eyesto things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased tosee them."

She detached a small gold cigarette-case fromone of her bracelets, held it out to him, and tooka cigarette herself. On the chimney were longspills for lighting them.

"Ah, then we can both help each other. But Iwant help so much more. You must tell me justwhat to do."

It was on the tip of his tongue to reply: "Don'tbe seen driving about the streets with Beau-fort—" but he was being too deeply drawn intothe atmosphere of the room, which was heratmosphere, and to give advice of that sortwould have been like telling some one whowas bargaining for attar-of-roses in Samarkandthat one should always be provided with arc-tics for a New York winter. New York seemedmuch farther off than Samarkand, and if theywere indeed to help each other she was render-ing what might prove the first of their mutualservices by making him look at his native cityobjectively. Viewed thus, as through the wrongend of a telescope, it looked disconcertinglysmall and distant; but then from Samarkand itwould.

A flame darted from the logs and she bent overthe fire, stretching her thin hands so close to itthat a faint halo shone about the oval nails. Thelight touched to russet the rings of dark hair

escaping from her braids, and made her paleface paler.

"There are plenty of people to tell you what todo," Archer rejoined, obscurely envious ofthem.

"Oh—all my aunts? And my dear old Granny?"She considered the idea impartially. "They're alla little vexed with me for setting up for my-self—poor Granny especially. She wanted tokeep me with her; but I had to be free—" Hewas impressed by this light way of speaking ofthe formidable Catherine, and moved by thethought of what must have given MadameOlenska this thirst for even the loneliest kind offreedom. But the idea of Beaufort gnawed him.

"I think I understand how you feel," he said."Still, your family can advise you; explain dif-ferences; show you the way."

She lifted her thin black eyebrows. "Is NewYork such a labyrinth? I thought it so straightup and down—like Fifth Avenue. And with allthe cross streets numbered!" She seemed toguess his faint disapproval of this, and added,with the rare smile that enchanted her wholeface: "If you knew how I like it for just THAT—the straight-up-and-downness, and the bighonest labels on everything!"

He saw his chance. "Everything may be la-belled—but everybody is not."

"Perhaps. I may simplify too much—but you'llwarn me if I do." She turned from the fire tolook at him. "There are only two people herewho make me feel as if they understood what Imean and could explain things to me: you andMr. Beaufort."

Archer winced at the joining of the names, andthen, with a quick readjustment, understood,sympathised and pitied. So close to the powers

of evil she must have lived that she stillbreathed more freely in their air. But since shefelt that he understood her also, his businesswould be to make her see Beaufort as he reallywas, with all he represented—and abhor it.

He answered gently: "I understand. But just atfirst don't let go of your old friends' hands: Imean the older women, your Granny Mingott,Mrs. Welland, Mrs. van der Luyden. They likeand admire you—they want to help you."

She shook her head and sighed. "Oh, I know—Iknow! But on condition that they don't hearanything unpleasant. Aunt Welland put it inthose very words when I tried.... Does no onewant to know the truth here, Mr. Archer? Thereal loneliness is living among all these kindpeople who only ask one to pretend!" She liftedher hands to her face, and he saw her thinshoulders shaken by a sob.

"Madame Olenska!—Oh, don't, Ellen," he cried,starting up and bending over her. He drewdown one of her hands, clasping and chafing itlike a child's while he murmured reassuringwords; but in a moment she freed herself, andlooked up at him with wet lashes.

"Does no one cry here, either? I suppose there'sno need to, in heaven," she said, straighteningher loosened braids with a laugh, and bendingover the tea-kettle. It was burnt into his con-sciousness that he had called her "Ellen"—called her so twice; and that she had not no-ticed it. Far down the inverted telescope he sawthe faint white figure of May Welland—in NewYork.

Suddenly Nastasia put her head in to say some-thing in her rich Italian.

Madame Olenska, again with a hand at herhair, uttered an exclamation of assent—a flash-ing "Gia—gia"—and the Duke of St. Austrey

entered, piloting a tremendous blackwiggedand red-plumed lady in overflowing furs.

"My dear Countess, I've brought an old friendof mine to see you—Mrs. Struthers. She wasn'tasked to the party last night, and she wants toknow you."

The Duke beamed on the group, and MadameOlenska advanced with a murmur of welcometoward the queer couple. She seemed to haveno idea how oddly matched they were, norwhat a liberty the Duke had taken in bringinghis companion—and to do him justice, asArcher perceived, the Duke seemed as unawareof it himself.

"Of course I want to know you, my dear," criedMrs. Struthers in a round rolling voice thatmatched her bold feathers and her brazen wig."I want to know everybody who's young andinteresting and charming. And the Duke tellsme you like music—didn't you, Duke? You're a

pianist yourself, I believe? Well, do you want tohear Sarasate play tomorrow evening at myhouse? You know I've something going onevery Sunday evening—it's the day when NewYork doesn't know what to do with itself, andso I say to it: 'Come and be amused.' And theDuke thought you'd be tempted by Sarasate.You'll find a number of your friends."

Madame Olenska's face grew brilliant withpleasure. "How kind! How good of the Duke tothink of me!" She pushed a chair up to the tea-table and Mrs. Struthers sank into it delectably."Of course I shall be too happy to come."

"That's all right, my dear. And bring youryoung gentleman with you." Mrs. Struthersextended a hail-fellow hand to Archer. "I can'tput a name to you—but I'm sure I've met you—I've met everybody, here, or in Paris or London.Aren't you in diplomacy? All the diplomatistscome to me. You like music too? Duke, youmust be sure to bring him."

The Duke said "Rather" from the depths of hisbeard, and Archer withdrew with a stiffly cir-cular bow that made him feel as full of spine asa self-conscious school-boy among careless andunnoticing elders.

He was not sorry for the denouement of hisvisit: he only wished it had come sooner, andspared him a certain waste of emotion. As hewent out into the wintry night, New York againbecame vast and imminent, and May Wellandthe loveliest woman in it. He turned into hisflorist's to send her the daily box of lilies-of-the-valley which, to his confusion, he found he hadforgotten that morning.

As he wrote a word on his card and waited foran envelope he glanced about the emboweredshop, and his eye lit on a cluster of yellowroses. He had never seen any as sun-goldenbefore, and his first impulse was to send themto May instead of the lilies. But they did notlook like her—there was something too rich,

too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a suddenrevulsion of mood, and almost without know-ing what he did, he signed to the florist to laythe roses in another long box, and slipped hiscard into a second envelope, on which he wrotethe name of the Countess Olenska; then, just ashe was turning away, he drew the card outagain, and left the empty envelope on the box.

"They'll go at once?" he enquired, pointing tothe roses.

The florist assured him that they would.

X.

The next day he persuaded May to escape for awalk in the Park after luncheon. As was thecustom in old-fashioned Episcopalian NewYork, she usually accompanied her parents to

church on Sunday afternoons; but Mrs. Wel-land condoned her truancy, having that verymorning won her over to the necessity of a longengagement, with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the propernumber of dozens.

The day was delectable. The bare vaulting oftrees along the Mall was ceiled with lapis laz-uli, and arched above snow that shone likesplintered crystals. It was the weather to callout May's radiance, and she burned like ayoung maple in the frost. Archer was proud ofthe glances turned on her, and the simple joy ofpossessorship cleared away his underlyingperplexities.

"It's so delicious—waking every morning tosmell lilies-of-the-valley in one's room!" shesaid.

"Yesterday they came late. I hadn't time in themorning—"

"But your remembering each day to send themmakes me love them so much more than ifyou'd given a standing order, and they cameevery morning on the minute, like one's music-teacher—as I know Gertrude Lefferts's did, forinstance, when she and Lawrence were en-gaged."

"Ah—they would!" laughed Archer, amused ather keenness. He looked sideways at her fruit-like cheek and felt rich and secure enough toadd: "When I sent your lilies yesterday after-noon I saw some rather gorgeous yellow rosesand packed them off to Madame Olenska. Wasthat right?"

"How dear of you! Anything of that kind de-lights her. It's odd she didn't mention it: shelunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beau-fort's having sent her wonderful orchids, andcousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamperof carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems sosurprised to receive flowers. Don't people send

them in Europe? She thinks it such a prettycustom."

"Oh, well, no wonder mine were overshad-owed by Beaufort's," said Archer irritably. Thenhe remembered that he had not put a card withthe roses, and was vexed at having spoken ofthem. He wanted to say: "I called on yourcousin yesterday," but hesitated. If MadameOlenska had not spoken of his visit it mightseem awkward that he should. Yet not to do sogave the affair an air of mystery that he dis-liked. To shake off the question he began to talkof their own plans, their future, and Mrs. Wel-land's insistence on a long engagement.

"If you call it long! Isabel Chivers and Reggiewere engaged for two years: Grace and Thorleyfor nearly a year and a half. Why aren't we verywell off as we are?"

It was the traditional maidenly interrogation,and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it

singularly childish. No doubt she simply ech-oed what was said for her; but she was nearingher twenty-second birthday, and he wonderedat what age "nice" women began to speak forthemselves.

"Never, if we won't let them, I suppose," hemused, and recalled his mad outburst to Mr.Sillerton Jackson: "Women ought to be as freeas we are—"

It would presently be his task to take the ban-dage from this young woman's eyes, and bidher look forth on the world. But how manygenerations of the women who had gone to hermaking had descended bandaged to the familyvault? He shivered a little, remembering someof the new ideas in his scientific books, and themuch-cited instance of the Kentucky cave-fish,which had ceased to develop eyes because theyhad no use for them. What if, when he hadbidden May Welland to open hers, they couldonly look out blankly at blankness?

"We might be much better off. We might bealtogether together—we might travel."

Her face lit up. "That would be lovely," sheowned: she would love to travel. But hermother would not understand their wanting todo things so differently.

"As if the mere 'differently' didn't account forit!" the wooer insisted.

"Newland! You're so original!" she exulted.

His heart sank, for he saw that he was sayingall the things that young men in the same situa-tion were expected to say, and that she wasmaking the answers that instinct and traditiontaught her to make—even to the point of callinghim original.

"Original! We're all as like each other as thosedolls cut out of the same folded paper. We're

like patterns stencilled on a wall. Can't you andI strike out for ourselves, May?"

He had stopped and faced her in the excitementof their discussion, and her eyes rested on himwith a bright unclouded admiration.

"Mercy—shall we elope?" she laughed.

"If you would—"

"You DO love me, Newland! I'm so happy."

"But then—why not be happier?"

"We can't behave like people in novels, though,can we?"

"Why not—why not—why not?"

She looked a little bored by his insistence. Sheknew very well that they couldn't, but it wastroublesome to have to produce a reason. "I'mnot clever enough to argue with you. But that

kind of thing is rather—vulgar, isn't it?" shesuggested, relieved to have hit on a word thatwould assuredly extinguish the whole subject.

"Are you so much afraid, then, of being vul-gar?"

She was evidently staggered by this. "Of courseI should hate it—so would you," she rejoined, atrifle irritably.

He stood silent, beating his stick nervouslyagainst his boot-top; and feeling that she hadindeed found the right way of closing the dis-cussion, she went on light-heartedly: "Oh, did Itell you that I showed Ellen my ring? Shethinks it the most beautiful setting she eversaw. There's nothing like it in the rue de la Paix,she said. I do love you, Newland, for being soartistic!"

The next afternoon, as Archer, before dinner,sat smoking sullenly in his study, Janey wan-dered in on him. He had failed to stop at hisclub on the way up from the office where heexercised the profession of the law in the lei-surely manner common to well-to-do NewYorkers of his class. He was out of spirits andslightly out of temper, and a haunting horror ofdoing the same thing every day at the samehour besieged his brain.

"Sameness—sameness!" he muttered, the wordrunning through his head like a persecutingtune as he saw the familiar tall-hatted figureslounging behind the plate-glass; and becausehe usually dropped in at the club at that hourhe had gone home instead. He knew not onlywhat they were likely to be talking about, butthe part each one would take in the discussion.The Duke of course would be their principaltheme; though the appearance in Fifth Avenueof a golden-haired lady in a small canary-

coloured brougham with a pair of black cobs(for which Beaufort was generally thought re-sponsible) would also doubtless be thoroughlygone into. Such "women" (as they were called)were few in New York, those driving their owncarriages still fewer, and the appearance ofMiss Fanny Ring in Fifth Avenue at the fash-ionable hour had profoundly agitated society.Only the day before, her carriage had passedMrs. Lovell Mingott's, and the latter had in-stantly rung the little bell at her elbow and or-dered the coachman to drive her home. "Whatif it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?"people asked each other with a shudder.Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at thatvery hour, holding forth on the disintegrationof society.

He raised his head irritably when his sisterJaney entered, and then quickly bent over hisbook (Swinburne's "Chastelard"—just out) as ifhe had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-

table heaped with books, opened a volume ofthe "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face overthe archaic French, and sighed: "What learnedthings you read!"

"Well—?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him.

"Mother's very angry."

"Angry? With whom? About what?"

"Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. Shebrought word that her brother would come inafter dinner: she couldn't say very much, be-cause he forbade her to: he wishes to give allthe details himself. He's with cousin Louisa vander Luyden now."

"For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a freshstart. It would take an omniscient Deity toknow what you're talking about."

"It's not a time to be profane, Newland....Mother feels badly enough about your not go-ing to church ..."

With a groan he plunged back into his book.

"NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend MadameOlenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's partylast night: she went there with the Duke andMr. Beaufort."

At the last clause of this announcement a sense-less anger swelled the young man's breast. Tosmother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knewshe meant to."

Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "Youknew she meant to—and you didn't try to stopher? To warn her?"

"Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'mnot engaged to be married to the Countess

Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound inhis own ears.

"You're marrying into her family."

"Oh, family—family!" he jeered.

"Newland—don't you care about Family?"

"Not a brass farthing."

"Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luydenwill think?"

"Not the half of one—if she thinks such oldmaid's rubbish."

"Mother is not an old maid," said his virginsister with pinched lips.

He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and soare the van der Luydens, and so we all are,when it comes to being so much as brushed bythe wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long

gentle face puckering into tears, and feltashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting.

"Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose,Janey—I'm not her keeper."

"No; but you DID ask the Wellands to an-nounce your engagement sooner so that wemight all back her up; and if it hadn't been forthat cousin Louisa would never have invitedher to the dinner for the Duke."

"Well—what harm was there in inviting her?She was the best-looking woman in the room;she made the dinner a little less funereal thanthe usual van der Luyden banquet."

"You know cousin Henry asked her to pleaseyou: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And nowthey're so upset that they're going back toSkuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'dbetter come down. You don't seem to under-stand how mother feels."

In the drawing-room Newland found hismother. She raised a troubled brow from herneedlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?"

"Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured asher own. "But I can't take it very seriously."

"Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisaand cousin Henry?"

"The fact that they can be offended by such atrifle as Countess Olenska's going to the houseof a woman they consider common."

"Consider—!"

"Well, who is; but who has good music, andamuses people on Sunday evenings, when thewhole of New York is dying of inanition."

"Good music? All I know is, there was awoman who got up on a table and sang thethings they sing at the places you go to in Paris.There was smoking and champagne."

"Well—that kind of thing happens in otherplaces, and the world still goes on."

"I don't suppose, dear, you're really defendingthe French Sunday?"

"I've heard you often enough, mother, grumbleat the English Sunday when we've been inLondon."

"New York is neither Paris nor London."

"Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned.

"You mean, I suppose, that society here is notas brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we be-long here, and people should respect our wayswhen they come among us. Ellen Olenska espe-cially: she came back to get away from the kindof life people lead in brilliant societies."

Newland made no answer, and after a momenthis mother ventured: "I was going to put on mybonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin

Louisa for a moment before dinner." Hefrowned, and she continued: "I thought youmight explain to her what you've just said: thatsociety abroad is different ... that people are notas particular, and that Madame Olenska maynot have realised how we feel about suchthings. It would be, you know, dear," sheadded with an innocent adroitness, "in Ma-dame Olenska's interest if you did."

"Dearest mother, I really don't see how we'reconcerned in the matter. The Duke took Ma-dame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's—in fact hebrought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I wasthere when they came. If the van der Luydenswant to quarrel with anybody, the real culpritis under their own roof."

"Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know ofcousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke'shis guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don'tdiscriminate: how should they? Countess Olen-

ska is a New Yorker, and should have re-spected the feelings of New York."

"Well, then, if they must have a victim, youhave my leave to throw Madame Olenska tothem," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't seemyself—or you either—offering ourselves upto expiate her crimes."

"Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side,"his mother answered, in the sensitive tone thatwas her nearest approach to anger.

The sad butler drew back the drawing-roomportieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van derLuyden."

Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushedher chair back with an agitated hand.

"Another lamp," she cried to the retreating ser-vant, while Janey bent over to straighten hermother's cap.

Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on thethreshold, and Newland Archer went forwardto greet his cousin.

"We were just talking about you, sir," he said.

Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed bythe announcement. He drew off his glove toshake hands with the ladies, and smoothed histall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chairforward, and Archer continued: "And theCountess Olenska."

Mrs. Archer paled.

"Ah—a charming woman. I have just been tosee her," said Mr. van der Luyden, compla-cency restored to his brow. He sank into thechair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor besidehim in the old-fashioned way, and went on:"She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I hadsent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, andI was astonished. Instead of massing them in

big bunches as our head-gardener does, shehad scattered them about loosely, here andthere ... I can't say how. The Duke had told me:he said: 'Go and see how cleverly she's ar-ranged her drawing-room.' And she has. Ishould really like to take Louisa to see her, ifthe neighbourhood were not so—unpleasant."

A dead silence greeted this unusual flow ofwords from Mr. van der Luyden. Mrs. Archerdrew her embroidery out of the basket intowhich she had nervously tumbled it, andNewland, leaning against the chimney-placeand twisting a humming-bird-feather screen inhis hand, saw Janey's gaping countenance lit upby the coming of the second lamp.

"The fact is," Mr. van der Luyden continued,stroking his long grey leg with a bloodlesshand weighed down by the Patroon's greatsignet-ring, "the fact is, I dropped in to thankher for the very pretty note she wrote me aboutmy flowers; and also—but this is between our-

selves, of course—to give her a friendly warn-ing about allowing the Duke to carry her off toparties with him. I don't know if you'veheard—"

Mrs. Archer produced an indulgent smile. "Hasthe Duke been carrying her off to parties?"

"You know what these English grandees are.They're all alike. Louisa and I are very fond ofour cousin—but it's hopeless to expect peoplewho are accustomed to the European courts totrouble themselves about our little republicandistinctions. The Duke goes where he'samused." Mr. van der Luyden paused, but noone spoke. "Yes—it seems he took her with himlast night to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. SillertonJackson has just been to us with the foolishstory, and Louisa was rather troubled. So Ithought the shortest way was to go straight toCountess Olenska and explain—by the meresthint, you know—how we feel in New Yorkabout certain things. I felt I might, without in-

delicacy, because the evening she dined with usshe rather suggested ... rather let me see thatshe would be grateful for guidance. And sheWAS."

Mr. van der Luyden looked about the roomwith what would have been self-satisfaction onfeatures less purged of the vulgar passions. Onhis face it became a mild benevolence whichMrs. Archer's countenance dutifully reflected.

"How kind you both are, dear Henry—always!Newland will particularly appreciate what youhave done because of dear May and his newrelations."

She shot an admonitory glance at her son, whosaid: "Immensely, sir. But I was sure you'd likeMadame Olenska."

Mr. van der Luyden looked at him with ex-treme gentleness. "I never ask to my house, mydear Newland," he said, "any one whom I do

not like. And so I have just told Sillerton Jack-son." With a glance at the clock he rose andadded: "But Louisa will be waiting. We are din-ing early, to take the Duke to the Opera."

After the portieres had solemnly closed behindtheir visitor a silence fell upon the Archer fam-ily.

"Gracious—how romantic!" at last broke explo-sively from Janey. No one knew exactly whatinspired her elliptic comments, and her rela-tions had long since given up trying to inter-pret them.

Mrs. Archer shook her head with a sigh. "Pro-vided it all turns out for the best," she said, inthe tone of one who knows how surely it willnot. "Newland, you must stay and see SillertonJackson when he comes this evening: I reallyshan't know what to say to him."

"Poor mother! But he won't come—" her sonlaughed, stooping to kiss away her frown.

XI.

Some two weeks later, Newland Archer, sittingin abstracted idleness in his private compart-ment of the office of Letterblair, Lamson andLow, attorneys at law, was summoned by thehead of the firm.

Old Mr. Letterblair, the accredited legal adviserof three generations of New York gentility,throned behind his mahogany desk in evidentperplexity. As he stroked his closeclippedwhite whiskers and ran his hand through therumpled grey locks above his jutting brows, hisdisrespectful junior partner thought how muchhe looked like the Family Physician annoyed

with a patient whose symptoms refuse to beclassified.

"My dear sir—" he always addressed Archer as"sir"—"I have sent for you to go into a littlematter; a matter which, for the moment, I prefernot to mention either to Mr. Skipworth or Mr.Redwood." The gentlemen he spoke of were theother senior partners of the firm; for, as wasalways the case with legal associations of oldstanding in New York, all the partners namedon the office letter-head were long since dead;and Mr. Letterblair, for example, was, profes-sionally speaking, his own grandson.

He leaned back in his chair with a furrowedbrow. "For family reasons—" he continued.

Archer looked up.

"The Mingott family," said Mr. Letterblair withan explanatory smile and bow. "Mrs. MansonMingott sent for me yesterday. Her grand-

daughter the Countess Olenska wishes to sueher husband for divorce. Certain papers havebeen placed in my hands." He paused anddrummed on his desk. "In view of your pro-spective alliance with the family I should like toconsult you—to consider the case with you—before taking any farther steps."

Archer felt the blood in his temples. He hadseen the Countess Olenska only once since hisvisit to her, and then at the Opera, in the Min-gott box. During this interval she had become aless vivid and importunate image, recedingfrom his foreground as May Welland resumedher rightful place in it. He had not heard herdivorce spoken of since Janey's first randomallusion to it, and had dismissed the tale as un-founded gossip. Theoretically, the idea of di-vorce was almost as distasteful to him as to hismother; and he was annoyed that Mr. Letter-blair (no doubt prompted by old CatherineMingott) should be so evidently planning to

draw him into the affair. After all, there wereplenty of Mingott men for such jobs, and as yethe was not even a Mingott by marriage.

He waited for the senior partner to continue.Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and drewout a packet. "If you will run your eye overthese papers—"

Archer frowned. "I beg your pardon, sir; butjust because of the prospective relationship, Ishould prefer your consulting Mr. Skipworth orMr. Redwood."

Mr. Letterblair looked surprised and slightlyoffended. It was unusual for a junior to rejectsuch an opening.

He bowed. "I respect your scruple, sir; but inthis case I believe true delicacy requires you todo as I ask. Indeed, the suggestion is not minebut Mrs. Manson Mingott's and her son's. I

have seen Lovell Mingott; and also Mr. Wel-land. They all named you."

Archer felt his temper rising. He had beensomewhat languidly drifting with events forthe last fortnight, and letting May's fair looksand radiant nature obliterate the rather impor-tunate pressure of the Mingott claims. But thisbehest of old Mrs. Mingott's roused him to asense of what the clan thought they had theright to exact from a prospective son-in-law;and he chafed at the role.

"Her uncles ought to deal with this," he said.

"They have. The matter has been gone into bythe family. They are opposed to the Countess'sidea; but she is firm, and insists on a legal opin-ion."

The young man was silent: he had not openedthe packet in his hand.

"Does she want to marry again?"

"I believe it is suggested; but she denies it."

"Then—"

"Will you oblige me, Mr. Archer, by first look-ing through these papers? Afterward, when wehave talked the case over, I will give you myopinion."

Archer withdrew reluctantly with the unwel-come documents. Since their last meeting hehad half-unconsciously collaborated withevents in ridding himself of the burden of Ma-dame Olenska. His hour alone with her by thefirelight had drawn them into a momentaryintimacy on which the Duke of St. Austrey'sintrusion with Mrs. Lemuel Struthers, and theCountess's joyous greeting of them, had ratherprovidentially broken. Two days later Archerhad assisted at the comedy of her reinstatementin the van der Luydens' favour, and had said to

himself, with a touch of tartness, that a ladywho knew how to thank all-powerful elderlygentlemen to such good purpose for a bunch offlowers did not need either the private consola-tions or the public championship of a youngman of his small compass. To look at the matterin this light simplified his own case and sur-prisingly furbished up all the dim domesticvirtues. He could not picture May Welland, inwhatever conceivable emergency, hawkingabout her private difficulties and lavishing herconfidences on strange men; and she had neverseemed to him finer or fairer than in the weekthat followed. He had even yielded to her wishfor a long engagement, since she had found theone disarming answer to his plea for haste.

"You know, when it comes to the point, yourparents have always let you have your wayever since you were a little girl," he argued; andshe had answered, with her clearest look: "Yes;and that's what makes it so hard to refuse the

very last thing they'll ever ask of me as a littlegirl."

That was the old New York note; that was thekind of answer he would like always to be sureof his wife's making. If one had habituallybreathed the New York air there were timeswhen anything less crystalline seemed stifling.

The papers he had retired to read did not tellhim much in fact; but they plunged him into anatmosphere in which he choked and spluttered.They consisted mainly of an exchange of lettersbetween Count Olenski's solicitors and aFrench legal firm to whom the Countess hadapplied for the settlement of her financial situa-tion. There was also a short letter from theCount to his wife: after reading it, NewlandArcher rose, jammed the papers back into theirenvelope, and reentered Mr. Letterblair's office.

"Here are the letters, sir. If you wish, I'll seeMadame Olenska," he said in a constrainedvoice.

"Thank you—thank you, Mr. Archer. Come anddine with me tonight if you're free, and we'll gointo the matter afterward: in case you wish tocall on our client tomorrow."

Newland Archer walked straight home againthat afternoon. It was a winter evening oftransparent clearness, with an innocent youngmoon above the house-tops; and he wanted tofill his soul's lungs with the pure radiance, andnot exchange a word with any one till he andMr. Letterblair were closeted together afterdinner. It was impossible to decide otherwisethan he had done: he must see Madame Olen-ska himself rather than let her secrets be baredto other eyes. A great wave of compassion hadswept away his indifference and impatience:she stood before him as an exposed and pitifulfigure, to be saved at all costs from farther

wounding herself in her mad plunges againstfate.

He remembered what she had told him of Mrs.Welland's request to be spared whatever was"unpleasant" in her history, and winced at thethought that it was perhaps this attitude ofmind which kept the New York air so pure."Are we only Pharisees after all?" he wondered,puzzled by the effort to reconcile his instinctivedisgust at human vileness with his equally in-stinctive pity for human frailty.

For the first time he perceived how elementaryhis own principles had always been. He passedfor a young man who had not been afraid ofrisks, and he knew that his secret love-affairwith poor silly Mrs. Thorley Rushworth hadnot been too secret to invest him with a becom-ing air of adventure. But Mrs. Rushworth was"that kind of woman"; foolish, vain, clandestineby nature, and far more attracted by the secrecyand peril of the affair than by such charms and

qualities as he possessed. When the factdawned on him it nearly broke his heart, butnow it seemed the redeeming feature of thecase. The affair, in short, had been of the kindthat most of the young men of his age had beenthrough, and emerged from with calm con-sciences and an undisturbed belief in the abys-mal distinction between the women one lovedand respected and those one enjoyed—andpitied. In this view they were sedulously abet-ted by their mothers, aunts and other elderlyfemale relatives, who all shared Mrs. Archer'sbelief that when "such things happened" it wasundoubtedly foolish of the man, but somehowalways criminal of the woman. All the elderlyladies whom Archer knew regarded anywoman who loved imprudently as necessarilyunscrupulous and designing, and mere simple-minded man as powerless in her clutches. Theonly thing to do was to persuade him, as earlyas possible, to marry a nice girl, and then trustto her to look after him.

In the complicated old European communities,Archer began to guess, love-problems might beless simple and less easily classified. Rich andidle and ornamental societies must producemany more such situations; and there mighteven be one in which a woman naturally sensi-tive and aloof would yet, from the force of cir-cumstances, from sheer defencelessness andloneliness, be drawn into a tie inexcusable byconventional standards.

On reaching home he wrote a line to theCountess Olenska, asking at what hour of thenext day she could receive him, and des-patched it by a messenger-boy, who returnedpresently with a word to the effect that she wasgoing to Skuytercliff the next morning to stayover Sunday with the van der Luydens, butthat he would find her alone that evening afterdinner. The note was written on a rather untidyhalf-sheet, without date or address, but herhand was firm and free. He was amused at the

idea of her week-ending in the stately solitudeof Skuytercliff, but immediately afterward feltthat there, of all places, she would most feel thechill of minds rigorously averted from the "un-pleasant."

He was at Mr. Letterblair's punctually at seven,glad of the pretext for excusing himself soonafter dinner. He had formed his own opinionfrom the papers entrusted to him, and did notespecially want to go into the matter with hissenior partner. Mr. Letterblair was a widower,and they dined alone, copiously and slowly, ina dark shabby room hung with yellowingprints of "The Death of Chatham" and "TheCoronation of Napoleon." On the sideboard,between fluted Sheraton knife-cases, stood adecanter of Haut Brion, and another of the oldLanning port (the gift of a client), which thewastrel Tom Lanning had sold off a year or twobefore his mysterious and discreditable death

in San Francisco—an incident less publicly hu-miliating to the family than the sale of the cel-lar.

After a velvety oyster soup came shad and cu-cumbers, then a young broiled turkey with cornfritters, followed by a canvas-back with currantjelly and a celery mayonnaise. Mr. Letterblair,who lunched on a sandwich and tea, dineddeliberately and deeply, and insisted on hisguest's doing the same. Finally, when the clos-ing rites had been accomplished, the cloth wasremoved, cigars were lit, and Mr. Letterblair,leaning back in his chair and pushing the portwestward, said, spreading his back agreeablyto the coal fire behind him: "The whole familyare against a divorce. And I think rightly."

Archer instantly felt himself on the other sideof the argument. "But why, sir? If there everwas a case—"

"Well—what's the use? SHE'S here—he's there;the Atlantic's between them. She'll never getback a dollar more of her money than what he'svoluntarily returned to her: their damned hea-then marriage settlements take precious goodcare of that. As things go over there, Olenski'sacted generously: he might have turned her outwithout a penny."

The young man knew this and was silent.

"I understand, though," Mr. Letterblair contin-ued, "that she attaches no importance to themoney. Therefore, as the family say, why notlet well enough alone?"

Archer had gone to the house an hour earlier infull agreement with Mr. Letterblair's view; butput into words by this selfish, well-fed and su-premely indifferent old man it suddenly be-came the Pharisaic voice of a society whollyabsorbed in barricading itself against the un-pleasant.

"I think that's for her to decide."

"H'm—have you considered the consequencesif she decides for divorce?"

"You mean the threat in her husband's letter?What weight would that carry? It's no morethan the vague charge of an angry blackguard."

"Yes; but it might make some unpleasant talk ifhe really defends the suit."

"Unpleasant—!" said Archer explosively.

Mr. Letterblair looked at him from under en-quiring eyebrows, and the young man, awareof the uselessness of trying to explain what wasin his mind, bowed acquiescently while hissenior continued: "Divorce is always unpleas-ant."

"You agree with me?" Mr. Letterblair resumed,after a waiting silence.

"Naturally," said Archer.

"Well, then, I may count on you; the Mingottsmay count on you; to use your influenceagainst the idea?"

Archer hesitated. "I can't pledge myself till I'veseen the Countess Olenska," he said at length.

"Mr. Archer, I don't understand you. Do youwant to marry into a family with a scandalousdivorce-suit hanging over it?"

"I don't think that has anything to do with thecase."

Mr. Letterblair put down his glass of port andfixed on his young partner a cautious and ap-prehensive gaze.

Archer understood that he ran the risk of hav-ing his mandate withdrawn, and for some ob-scure reason he disliked the prospect. Now thatthe job had been thrust on him he did not pro-

pose to relinquish it; and, to guard against thepossibility, he saw that he must reassure theunimaginative old man who was the legal con-science of the Mingotts.

"You may be sure, sir, that I shan't commit my-self till I've reported to you; what I meant wasthat I'd rather not give an opinion till I've heardwhat Madame Olenska has to say."

Mr. Letterblair nodded approvingly at an ex-cess of caution worthy of the best New Yorktradition, and the young man, glancing at hiswatch, pleaded an engagement and took leave.

XII.

Old-fashioned New York dined at seven, andthe habit of after-dinner calls, though deridedin Archer's set, still generally prevailed. As the

young man strolled up Fifth Avenue fromWaverley Place, the long thoroughfare wasdeserted but for a group of carriages standingbefore the Reggie Chiverses' (where there was adinner for the Duke), and the occasional figureof an elderly gentleman in heavy overcoat andmuffler ascending a brownstone doorstep anddisappearing into a gas-lit hall. Thus, as Archercrossed Washington Square, he remarked thatold Mr. du Lac was calling on his cousins theDagonets, and turning down the corner of WestTenth Street he saw Mr. Skipworth, of his ownfirm, obviously bound on a visit to the MissLannings. A little farther up Fifth Avenue,Beaufort appeared on his doorstep, darkly pro-jected against a blaze of light, descended to hisprivate brougham, and rolled away to a myste-rious and probably unmentionable destination.It was not an Opera night, and no one was giv-ing a party, so that Beaufort's outing was un-doubtedly of a clandestine nature. Archer con-nected it in his mind with a little house beyond

Lexington Avenue in which beribboned win-dow curtains and flower-boxes had recentlyappeared, and before whose newly painteddoor the canary-coloured brougham of MissFanny Ring was frequently seen to wait.

Beyond the small and slippery pyramid whichcomposed Mrs. Archer's world lay the almostunmapped quarter inhabited by artists, musi-cians and "people who wrote." These scatteredfragments of humanity had never shown anydesire to be amalgamated with the social struc-ture. In spite of odd ways they were said to be,for the most part, quite respectable; but theypreferred to keep to themselves. Medora Man-son, in her prosperous days, had inaugurated a"literary salon"; but it had soon died out owingto the reluctance of the literary to frequent it.

Others had made the same attempt, and therewas a household of Blenkers—an intense andvoluble mother, and three blowsy daughterswho imitated her—where one met Edwin

Booth and Patti and William Winter, and thenew Shakespearian actor George Rignold, andsome of the magazine editors and musical andliterary critics.

Mrs. Archer and her group felt a certain timid-ity concerning these persons. They were odd,they were uncertain, they had things one didn'tknow about in the background of their livesand minds. Literature and art were deeply re-spected in the Archer set, and Mrs. Archer wasalways at pains to tell her children how muchmore agreeable and cultivated society had beenwhen it included such figures as WashingtonIrving, Fitz-Greene Halleck and the poet of"The Culprit Fay." The most celebrated authorsof that generation had been "gentlemen"; per-haps the unknown persons who succeededthem had gentlemanly sentiments, but theirorigin, their appearance, their hair, their inti-macy with the stage and the Opera, made anyold New York criterion inapplicable to them.

"When I was a girl," Mrs. Archer used to say,"we knew everybody between the Battery andCanal Street; and only the people one knew hadcarriages. It was perfectly easy to place any onethen; now one can't tell, and I prefer not to try."

Only old Catherine Mingott, with her absenceof moral prejudices and almost parvenu indif-ference to the subtler distinctions, might havebridged the abyss; but she had never opened abook or looked at a picture, and cared for musiconly because it reminded her of gala nights atthe Italiens, in the days of her triumph at theTuileries. Possibly Beaufort, who was hermatch in daring, would have succeeded inbringing about a fusion; but his grand houseand silk-stockinged footmen were an obstacleto informal sociability. Moreover, he was asilliterate as old Mrs. Mingott, and considered"fellows who wrote" as the mere paid purvey-ors of rich men's pleasures; and no one rich

enough to influence his opinion had ever ques-tioned it.

Newland Archer had been aware of thesethings ever since he could remember, and hadaccepted them as part of the structure of hisuniverse. He knew that there were societieswhere painters and poets and novelists andmen of science, and even great actors, were assought after as Dukes; he had often pictured tohimself what it would have been to live in theintimacy of drawing-rooms dominated by thetalk of Merimee (whose "Lettres a une Incon-nue" was one of his inseparables), of Thackeray,Browning or William Morris. But such thingswere inconceivable in New York, and unset-tling to think of. Archer knew most of the "fel-lows who wrote," the musicians and the paint-ers: he met them at the Century, or at the littlemusical and theatrical clubs that were begin-ning to come into existence. He enjoyed themthere, and was bored with them at the Blen-

kers', where they were mingled with fervid anddowdy women who passed them about likecaptured curiosities; and even after his mostexciting talks with Ned Winsett he alwayscame away with the feeling that if his worldwas small, so was theirs, and that the only wayto enlarge either was to reach a stage of man-ners where they would naturally merge.

He was reminded of this by trying to picturethe society in which the Countess Olenska hadlived and suffered, and also—perhaps—tastedmysterious joys. He remembered with whatamusement she had told him that her grand-mother Mingott and the Wellands objected toher living in a "Bohemian" quarter given overto "people who wrote." It was not the peril butthe poverty that her family disliked; but thatshade escaped her, and she supposed they con-sidered literature compromising.

She herself had no fears of it, and the booksscattered about her drawing-room (a part of the

house in which books were usually supposedto be "out of place"), though chiefly works offiction, had whetted Archer's interest with suchnew names as those of Paul Bourget, Huys-mans, and the Goncourt brothers. Ruminatingon these things as he approached her door, hewas once more conscious of the curious way inwhich she reversed his values, and of the needof thinking himself into conditions incrediblydifferent from any that he knew if he were to beof use in her present difficulty.

Nastasia opened the door, smiling mysteri-ously. On the bench in the hall lay a sable-linedovercoat, a folded opera hat of dull silk with agold J. B. on the lining, and a white silk muffler:there was no mistaking the fact that these costlyarticles were the property of Julius Beaufort.

Archer was angry: so angry that he came nearscribbling a word on his card and going away;then he remembered that in writing to Madame

Olenska he had been kept by excess of discre-tion from saying that he wished to see her pri-vately. He had therefore no one but himself toblame if she had opened her doors to other visi-tors; and he entered the drawing-room with thedogged determination to make Beaufort feelhimself in the way, and to outstay him.

The banker stood leaning against the mantel-shelf, which was draped with an old embroi-dery held in place by brass candelabra contain-ing church candies of yellowish wax. He hadthrust his chest out, supporting his shouldersagainst the mantel and resting his weight onone large patent-leather foot. As Archer enteredhe was smiling and looking down on his host-ess, who sat on a sofa placed at right angles tothe chimney. A table banked with flowersformed a screen behind it, and against the or-chids and azaleas which the young man recog-nised as tributes from the Beaufort hot-houses,Madame Olenska sat half-reclined, her head

propped on a hand and her wide sleeve leavingthe arm bare to the elbow.

It was usual for ladies who received in the eve-nings to wear what were called "simple dinnerdresses": a close-fitting armour of whale-bonedsilk, slightly open in the neck, with lace rufflesfilling in the crack, and tight sleeves with aflounce uncovering just enough wrist to showan Etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band. ButMadame Olenska, heedless of tradition, wasattired in a long robe of red velvet borderedabout the chin and down the front with glossyblack fur. Archer remembered, on his last visitto Paris, seeing a portrait by the new painter,Carolus Duran, whose pictures were the sensa-tion of the Salon, in which the lady wore one ofthese bold sheath-like robes with her chin nes-tling in fur. There was something perverse andprovocative in the notion of fur worn in theevening in a heated drawing-room, and in the

combination of a muffled throat and bare arms;but the effect was undeniably pleasing.

"Lord love us—three whole days at Skuyter-cliff!" Beaufort was saying in his loud sneeringvoice as Archer entered. "You'd better take allyour furs, and a hot-water-bottle."

"Why? Is the house so cold?" she asked, holdingout her left hand to Archer in a way mysteri-ously suggesting that she expected him to kissit.

"No; but the missus is," said Beaufort, noddingcarelessly to the young man.

"But I thought her so kind. She came herself toinvite me. Granny says I must certainly go."

"Granny would, of course. And I say it's ashame you're going to miss the little oystersupper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next

Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lotof jolly people."

She looked doubtfully from the banker toArcher.

"Ah—that does tempt me! Except the otherevening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a singleartist since I've been here."

"What kind of artists? I know one or two paint-ers, very good fellows, that I could bring to seeyou if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly.

"Painters? Are there painters in New York?"asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that therecould be none since he did not buy their pic-tures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer,with her grave smile: "That would be charming.But I was really thinking of dramatic artists,singers, actors, musicians. My husband's housewas always full of them."

She said the words "my husband" as if no sinis-ter associations were connected with them, andin a tone that seemed almost to sigh over thelost delights of her married life. Archer lookedat her perplexedly, wondering if it were light-ness or dissimulation that enabled her to touchso easily on the past at the very moment whenshe was risking her reputation in order to breakwith it.

"I do think," she went on, addressing both men,"that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It'sperhaps a mistake to see the same people everyday."

"It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York isdying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "Andwhen I try to liven it up for you, you go backon me. Come—think better of it! Sunday isyour last chance, for Campanini leaves nextweek for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've aprivate room, and a Steinway, and they'll singall night for me."

"How delicious! May I think it over, and writeto you tomorrow morning?"

She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint ofdismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it,and being unused to dismissals, stood staringat her with an obstinate line between his eyes.

"Why not now?"

"It's too serious a question to decide at this latehour."

"Do you call it late?"

She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because Ihave still to talk business with Mr. Archer for alittle while."

"Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appealfrom her tone, and with a slight shrug he re-covered his composure, took her hand, whichhe kissed with a practised air, and calling outfrom the threshold: "I say, Newland, if you can

persuade the Countess to stop in town ofcourse you're included in the supper," left theroom with his heavy important step.

For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letter-blair must have told her of his coming; but theirrelevance of her next remark made himchange his mind.

"You know painters, then? You live in theirmilieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest.

"Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts havea milieu here, any of them; they're more like avery thinly settled outskirt."

"But you care for such things?"

"Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London Inever miss an exhibition. I try to keep up."

She looked down at the tip of the little satinboot that peeped from her long draperies.

"I used to care immensely too: my life was fullof such things. But now I want to try not to."

"You want to try not to?"

"Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to becomejust like everybody else here."

Archer reddened. "You'll never be like every-body else," he said.

She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah,don't say that. If you knew how I hate to bedifferent!"

Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask.She leaned forward, clasping her knee in herthin hands, and looking away from him intoremote dark distances.

"I want to get away from it all," she insisted.

He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "Iknow. Mr. Letterblair has told me."

"Ah?"

"That's the reason I've come. He asked me to—you see I'm in the firm."

She looked slightly surprised, and then hereyes brightened. "You mean you can manage itfor me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letter-blair? Oh, that will be so much easier!"

Her tone touched him, and his confidence grewwith his self-satisfaction. He perceived that shehad spoken of business to Beaufort simply toget rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort wassomething of a triumph.

"I am here to talk about it," he repeated.

She sat silent, her head still propped by the armthat rested on the back of the sofa. Her facelooked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed bythe rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of asudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure.

"Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought,conscious in himself of the same instinctiverecoil that he had so often criticised in hismother and her contemporaries. How littlepractice he had had in dealing with unusualsituations! Their very vocabulary was unfamil-iar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction andthe stage. In face of what was coming he felt asawkward and embarrassed as a boy.

After a pause Madame Olenska broke out withunexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; Iwant to wipe out all the past."

"I understand that."

Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?"

"First—" he hesitated—"perhaps I ought toknow a little more."

She seemed surprised. "You know about myhusband—my life with him?"

He made a sign of assent.

"Well—then—what more is there? In this coun-try are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant—our church does not forbid divorce in suchcases."

"Certainly not."

They were both silent again, and Archer felt thespectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacinghideously between them. The letter filled onlyhalf a page, and was just what he had describedit to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: thevague charge of an angry blackguard. But howmuch truth was behind it? Only Count Olen-ski's wife could tell.

"I've looked through the papers you gave toMr. Letterblair," he said at length.

"Well—can there be anything more abomina-ble?"

"No."

She changed her position slightly, screening hereyes with her lifted hand.

"Of course you know," Archer continued, "thatif your husband chooses to fight the case—ashe threatens to—"

"Yes—?"

"He can say things—things that might beunpl—might be disagreeable to you: say thempublicly, so that they would get about, andharm you even if—"

"If—?"

"I mean: no matter how unfounded they were."

She paused for a long interval; so long that, notwishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, hehad time to imprint on his mind the exactshape of her other hand, the one on her knee,

and every detail of the three rings on her fourthand fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, awedding ring did not appear.

"What harm could such accusations, even if hemade them publicly, do me here?"

It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child—far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead, heanswered, in a voice that sounded in his earslike Mr. Letterblair's: "New York society is avery small world compared with the oneyou've lived in. And it's ruled, in spite of ap-pearances, by a few people with—well, ratherold-fashioned ideas."

She said nothing, and he continued: "Our ideasabout marriage and divorce are particularlyold-fashioned. Our legislation favours di-vorce—our social customs don't."

"Never?"

"Well—not if the woman, however injured,however irreproachable, has appearances in theleast degree against her, has exposed herself byany unconventional action to—to offensiveinsinuations—"

She drooped her head a little lower, and hewaited again, intensely hoping for a flash ofindignation, or at least a brief cry of denial.None came.

A little travelling clock ticked purringly at herelbow, and a log broke in two and sent up ashower of sparks. The whole hushed andbrooding room seemed to be waiting silentlywith Archer.

"Yes," she murmured at length, "that's what myfamily tell me."

He winced a little. "It's not unnatural—"

"OUR family," she corrected herself; and Archercoloured. "For you'll be my cousin soon," shecontinued gently.

"I hope so."

"And you take their view?"

He stood up at this, wandered across the room,stared with void eyes at one of the picturesagainst the old red damask, and came backirresolutely to her side. How could he say: "Yes,if what your husband hints is true, or if you'veno way of disproving it?"

"Sincerely—" she interjected, as he was about tospeak.

He looked down into the fire. "Sincerely, then—what should you gain that would compensatefor the possibility—the certainty—of a lot ofbeastly talk?"

"But my freedom—is that nothing?"

It flashed across him at that instant that thecharge in the letter was true, and that shehoped to marry the partner of her guilt. Howwas he to tell her that, if she really cherishedsuch a plan, the laws of the State were inexora-bly opposed to it? The mere suspicion that thethought was in her mind made him feel harshlyand impatiently toward her. "But aren't you asfree as air as it is?" he returned. "Who can touchyou? Mr. Letterblair tells me the financial ques-tion has been settled—"

"Oh, yes," she said indifferently.

"Well, then: is it worth while to risk what maybe infinitely disagreeable and painful? Think ofthe newspapers—their vileness! It's all stupidand narrow and unjust—but one can't makeover society."

"No," she acquiesced; and her tone was so faintand desolate that he felt a sudden remorse forhis own hard thoughts.

"The individual, in such cases, is nearly alwayssacrificed to what is supposed to be the collec-tive interest: people cling to any conventionthat keeps the family together—protects thechildren, if there are any," he rambled on, pour-ing out all the stock phrases that rose to his lipsin his intense desire to cover over the ugly real-ity which her silence seemed to have laid bare.Since she would not or could not say the oneword that would have cleared the air, his wishwas not to let her feel that he was trying toprobe into her secret. Better keep on the sur-face, in the prudent old New York way, thanrisk uncovering a wound he could not heal.

"It's my business, you know," he went on, "tohelp you to see these things as the people whoare fondest of you see them. The Mingotts, theWellands, the van der Luydens, all your friendsand relations: if I didn't show you honestlyhow they judge such questions, it wouldn't befair of me, would it?" He spoke insistently, al-

most pleading with her in his eagerness tocover up that yawning silence.

She said slowly: "No; it wouldn't be fair."

The fire had crumbled down to greyness, andone of the lamps made a gurgling appeal forattention. Madame Olenska rose, wound it upand returned to the fire, but without resumingher seat.

Her remaining on her feet seemed to signifythat there was nothing more for either of themto say, and Archer stood up also.

"Very well; I will do what you wish," she saidabruptly. The blood rushed to his forehead;and, taken aback by the suddenness of her sur-render, he caught her two hands awkwardly inhis.

"I—I do want to help you," he said.

"You do help me. Good night, my cousin."

He bent and laid his lips on her hands, whichwere cold and lifeless. She drew them away,and he turned to the door, found his coat andhat under the faint gas-light of the hall, andplunged out into the winter night bursting withthe belated eloquence of the inarticulate.

XIII.

It was a crowded night at Wallack's theatre.

The play was "The Shaughraun," with DionBoucicault in the title role and Harry Montagueand Ada Dyas as the lovers. The popularity ofthe admirable English company was at itsheight, and the Shaughraun always packed thehouse. In the galleries the enthusiasm was un-reserved; in the stalls and boxes, people smileda little at the hackneyed sentiments and clap-

trap situations, and enjoyed the play as muchas the galleries did.

There was one episode, in particular, that heldthe house from floor to ceiling. It was that inwhich Harry Montague, after a sad, almostmonosyllabic scene of parting with Miss Dyas,bade her good-bye, and turned to go. The ac-tress, who was standing near the mantelpieceand looking down into the fire, wore a graycashmere dress without fashionable loopings ortrimmings, moulded to her tall figure and flow-ing in long lines about her feet. Around herneck was a narrow black velvet ribbon with theends falling down her back.

When her wooer turned from her she rested herarms against the mantel-shelf and bowed herface in her hands. On the threshold he pausedto look at her; then he stole back, lifted one ofthe ends of velvet ribbon, kissed it, and left theroom without her hearing him or changing her

attitude. And on this silent parting the curtainfell.

It was always for the sake of that particularscene that Newland Archer went to see "TheShaughraun." He thought the adieux of Monta-gue and Ada Dyas as fine as anything he hadever seen Croisette and Bressant do in Paris, orMadge Robertson and Kendal in London; in itsreticence, its dumb sorrow, it moved him morethan the most famous histrionic outpourings.

On the evening in question the little scene ac-quired an added poignancy by remindinghim—he could not have said why—of hisleave-taking from Madame Olenska after theirconfidential talk a week or ten days earlier.

It would have been as difficult to discover anyresemblance between the two situations as be-tween the appearance of the persons con-cerned. Newland Archer could not pretend toanything approaching the young English ac-

tor's romantic good looks, and Miss Dyas was atall red-haired woman of monumental buildwhose pale and pleasantly ugly face was ut-terly unlike Ellen Olenska's vivid countenance.Nor were Archer and Madame Olenska twolovers parting in heart-broken silence; theywere client and lawyer separating after a talkwhich had given the lawyer the worst possibleimpression of the client's case. Wherein, then,lay the resemblance that made the young man'sheart beat with a kind of retrospective excite-ment? It seemed to be in Madame Olenska'smysterious faculty of suggesting tragic andmoving possibilities outside the daily run ofexperience. She had hardly ever said a word tohim to produce this impression, but it was apart of her, either a projection of her mysteriousand outlandish background or of somethinginherently dramatic, passionate and unusual inherself. Archer had always been inclined tothink that chance and circumstance played asmall part in shaping people's lots compared

with their innate tendency to have things hap-pen to them. This tendency he had felt from thefirst in Madame Olenska. The quiet, almostpassive young woman struck him as exactly thekind of person to whom things were bound tohappen, no matter how much she shrank fromthem and went out of her way to avoid them.The exciting fact was her having lived in anatmosphere so thick with drama that her owntendency to provoke it had apparently passedunperceived. It was precisely the odd absenceof surprise in her that gave him the sense of herhaving been plucked out of a very maelstrom:the things she took for granted gave the meas-ure of those she had rebelled against.

Archer had left her with the conviction thatCount Olenski's accusation was not unfounded.The mysterious person who figured in hiswife's past as "the secretary" had probably notbeen unrewarded for his share in her escape.The conditions from which she had fled were

intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: shewas young, she was frightened, she was des-perate—what more natural than that sheshould be grateful to her rescuer? The pity wasthat her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes andthe world's, on a par with her abominable hus-band. Archer had made her understand this, ashe was bound to do; he had also made her un-derstand that simplehearted kindly New York,on whose larger charity she had apparentlycounted, was precisely the place where shecould least hope for indulgence.

To have to make this fact plain to her—and towitness her resigned acceptance of it—hadbeen intolerably painful to him. He felt himselfdrawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousyand pity, as if her dumbly-confessed error hadput her at his mercy, humbling yet endearingher. He was glad it was to him she had re-vealed her secret, rather than to the cold scru-tiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze

of her family. He immediately took it uponhimself to assure them both that she had givenup her idea of seeking a divorce, basing herdecision on the fact that she had understoodthe uselessness of the proceeding; and withinfinite relief they had all turned their eyesfrom the "unpleasantness" she had sparedthem.

"I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs.Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had sum-moned him for a confidential interview, hadcongratulated him on his cleverness, and addedimpatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself whatnonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off asEllen Mingott and an old maid, when she hasthe luck to be a married woman and a Count-ess!"

These incidents had made the memory of hislast talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to theyoung man that as the curtain fell on the part-

ing of the two actors his eyes filled with tears,and he stood up to leave the theatre.

In doing so, he turned to the side of the housebehind him, and saw the lady of whom he wasthinking seated in a box with the Beauforts,Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men.He had not spoken with her alone since theirevening together, and had tried to avoid beingwith her in company; but now their eyes met,and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at thesame time, and made her languid little gestureof invitation, it was impossible not to go intothe box.

Beaufort and Lefferts made way for him, andafter a few words with Mrs. Beaufort, who al-ways preferred to look beautiful and not haveto talk, Archer seated himself behind MadameOlenska. There was no one else in the box butMr. Sillerton Jackson, who was telling Mrs.Beaufort in a confidential undertone about Mrs.Lemuel Struthers's last Sunday reception

(where some people reported that there hadbeen dancing). Under cover of this circumstan-tial narrative, to which Mrs. Beaufort listenedwith her perfect smile, and her head at just theright angle to be seen in profile from the stalls,Madame Olenska turned and spoke in a lowvoice.

"Do you think," she asked, glancing toward thestage, "he will send her a bunch of yellow rosestomorrow morning?"

Archer reddened, and his heart gave a leap ofsurprise. He had called only twice on MadameOlenska, and each time he had sent her a box ofyellow roses, and each time without a card. Shehad never before made any allusion to theflowers, and he supposed she had neverthought of him as the sender. Now her suddenrecognition of the gift, and her associating itwith the tender leave-taking on the stage, filledhim with an agitated pleasure.

"I was thinking of that too—I was going toleave the theatre in order to take the pictureaway with me," he said.

To his surprise her colour rose, reluctantly andduskily. She looked down at the mother-of-pearl opera-glass in her smoothly glovedhands, and said, after a pause: "What do you dowhile May is away?"

"I stick to my work," he answered, faintly an-noyed by the question.

In obedience to a long-established habit, theWellands had left the previous week for St.Augustine, where, out of regard for the sup-posed susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchialtubes, they always spent the latter part of thewinter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man,with no opinions but with many habits. Withthese habits none might interfere; and one ofthem demanded that his wife and daughtershould always go with him on his annual jour-

ney to the south. To preserve an unbroken do-mesticity was essential to his peace of mind; hewould not have known where his hair-brusheswere, or how to provide stamps for his letters,if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him.

As all the members of the family adored eachother, and as Mr. Welland was the central ob-ject of their idolatry, it never occurred to hiswife and May to let him go to St. Augustinealone; and his sons, who were both in the law,and could not leave New York during the win-ter, always joined him for Easter and travelledback with him.

It was impossible for Archer to discuss the ne-cessity of May's accompanying her father. Thereputation of the Mingotts' family physicianwas largely based on the attack of pneumoniawhich Mr. Welland had never had; and his in-sistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexi-ble. Originally, it had been intended that May'sengagement should not be announced till her

return from Florida, and the fact that it hadbeen made known sooner could not be ex-pected to alter Mr. Welland's plans. Archerwould have liked to join the travellers and havea few weeks of sunshine and boating with hisbetrothed; but he too was bound by customand conventions. Little arduous as his profes-sional duties were, he would have been con-victed of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan ifhe had suggested asking for a holiday in mid-winter; and he accepted May's departure withthe resignation which he perceived would haveto be one of the principal constituents of mar-ried life.

He was conscious that Madame Olenska waslooking at him under lowered lids. "I have donewhat you wished—what you advised," she saidabruptly.

"Ah—I'm glad," he returned, embarrassed byher broaching the subject at such a moment.

"I understand—that you were right," she wenton a little breathlessly; "but sometimes life isdifficult ... perplexing..."

"I know."

"And I wanted to tell you that I DO feel youwere right; and that I'm grateful to you," sheended, lifting her opera-glass quickly to hereyes as the door of the box opened and Beau-fort's resonant voice broke in on them.

Archer stood up, and left the box and the thea-tre.

Only the day before he had received a letterfrom May Welland in which, with characteristiccandour, she had asked him to "be kind toEllen" in their absence. "She likes you and ad-mires you so much—and you know, thoughshe doesn't show it, she's still very lonely andunhappy. I don't think Granny understandsher, or uncle Lovell Mingott either; they really

think she's much worldlier and fonder of soci-ety than she is. And I can quite see that NewYork must seem dull to her, though the familywon't admit it. I think she's been used to lots ofthings we haven't got; wonderful music, andpicture shows, and celebrities—artists and au-thors and all the clever people you admire.Granny can't understand her wanting anythingbut lots of dinners and clothes—but I can seethat you're almost the only person in New Yorkwho can talk to her about what she really caresfor."

His wise May—how he had loved her for thatletter! But he had not meant to act on it; he wastoo busy, to begin with, and he did not care, asan engaged man, to play too conspicuously thepart of Madame Olenska's champion. He hadan idea that she knew how to take care of her-self a good deal better than the ingenuous Mayimagined. She had Beaufort at her feet, Mr. vander Luyden hovering above her like a protect-

ing deity, and any number of candidates (Law-rence Lefferts among them) waiting their op-portunity in the middle distance. Yet he neversaw her, or exchanged a word with her, with-out feeling that, after all, May's ingenuousnessalmost amounted to a gift of divination. EllenOlenska was lonely and she was unhappy.

XIV.

As he came out into the lobby Archer ranacross his friend Ned Winsett, the only oneamong what Janey called his "clever people"with whom he cared to probe into things a littledeeper than the average level of club and chop-house banter.

He had caught sight, across the house, of Win-sett's shabby round-shouldered back, and hadonce noticed his eyes turned toward the Beau-

fort box. The two men shook hands, and Win-sett proposed a bock at a little German restau-rant around the corner. Archer, who was not inthe mood for the kind of talk they were likelyto get there, declined on the plea that he hadwork to do at home; and Winsett said: "Oh,well so have I for that matter, and I'll be theIndustrious Apprentice too."

They strolled along together, and presentlyWinsett said: "Look here, what I'm really afteris the name of the dark lady in that swell box ofyours—with the Beauforts, wasn't she? The oneyour friend Lefferts seems so smitten by."

Archer, he could not have said why, wasslightly annoyed. What the devil did Ned Win-sett want with Ellen Olenska's name? Andabove all, why did he couple it with Lefferts's?It was unlike Winsett to manifest such curios-ity; but after all, Archer remembered, he was ajournalist.

"It's not for an interview, I hope?" he laughed.

"Well—not for the press; just for myself," Win-sett rejoined. "The fact is she's a neighbour ofmine—queer quarter for such a beauty to settlein—and she's been awfully kind to my littleboy, who fell down her area chasing his kitten,and gave himself a nasty cut. She rushed inbareheaded, carrying him in her arms, with hisknee all beautifully bandaged, and was sosympathetic and beautiful that my wife was toodazzled to ask her name."

A pleasant glow dilated Archer's heart. Therewas nothing extraordinary in the tale: anywoman would have done as much for aneighbour's child. But it was just like Ellen, hefelt, to have rushed in bareheaded, carrying theboy in her arms, and to have dazzled poor Mrs.Winsett into forgetting to ask who she was.

"That is the Countess Olenska—a granddaugh-ter of old Mrs. Mingott's."

"Whew—a Countess!" whistled Ned Winsett."Well, I didn't know Countesses were soneighbourly. Mingotts ain't."

"They would be, if you'd let them."

"Ah, well—" It was their old interminable ar-gument as to the obstinate unwillingness of the"clever people" to frequent the fashionable, andboth men knew that there was no use in pro-longing it.

"I wonder," Winsett broke off, "how a Countesshappens to live in our slum?"

"Because she doesn't care a hang about whereshe lives—or about any of our little social sign-posts," said Archer, with a secret pride in hisown picture of her.

"H'm—been in bigger places, I suppose," theother commented. "Well, here's my corner."

He slouched off across Broadway, and Archerstood looking after him and musing on his lastwords.

Ned Winsett had those flashes of penetration;they were the most interesting thing about him,and always made Archer wonder why they hadallowed him to accept failure so stolidly at anage when most men are still struggling.

Archer had known that Winsett had a wife andchild, but he had never seen them. The twomen always met at the Century, or at somehaunt of journalists and theatrical people, suchas the restaurant where Winsett had proposedto go for a bock. He had given Archer to under-stand that his wife was an invalid; which mightbe true of the poor lady, or might merely meanthat she was lacking in social gifts or in eveningclothes, or in both. Winsett himself had a sav-age abhorrence of social observances: Archer,who dressed in the evening because he thoughtit cleaner and more comfortable to do so, and

who had never stopped to consider thatcleanliness and comfort are two of the costliestitems in a modest budget, regarded Winsett'sattitude as part of the boring "Bohemian" posethat always made fashionable people, whochanged their clothes without talking about it,and were not forever harping on the number ofservants one kept, seem so much simpler andless self-conscious than the others. Neverthe-less, he was always stimulated by Winsett, andwhenever he caught sight of the journalist'slean bearded face and melancholy eyes hewould rout him out of his corner and carry himoff for a long talk.

Winsett was not a journalist by choice. He wasa pure man of letters, untimely born in a worldthat had no need of letters; but after publishingone volume of brief and exquisite literary ap-preciations, of which one hundred and twentycopies were sold, thirty given away, and thebalance eventually destroyed by the publishers

(as per contract) to make room for more mar-ketable material, he had abandoned his realcalling, and taken a sub-editorial job on awomen's weekly, where fashion-plates andpaper patterns alternated with New Englandlove-stories and advertisements of temperancedrinks.

On the subject of "Hearth-fires" (as the paperwas called) he was inexhaustibly entertaining;but beneath his fun lurked the sterile bitternessof the still young man who has tried and givenup. His conversation always made Archer takethe measure of his own life, and feel how littleit contained; but Winsett's, after all, containedstill less, and though their common fund ofintellectual interests and curiosities made theirtalks exhilarating, their exchange of views usu-ally remained within the limits of a pensivedilettantism.

"The fact is, life isn't much a fit for either of us,"Winsett had once said. "I'm down and out;

nothing to be done about it. I've got only oneware to produce, and there's no market for ithere, and won't be in my time. But you're freeand you're well-off. Why don't you get intotouch? There's only one way to do it: to go intopolitics."

Archer threw his head back and laughed. Thereone saw at a flash the unbridgeable differencebetween men like Winsett and the others—Archer's kind. Every one in polite circles knewthat, in America, "a gentleman couldn't go intopolitics." But, since he could hardly put it inthat way to Winsett, he answered evasively:"Look at the career of the honest man in Ameri-can politics! They don't want us."

"Who's 'they'? Why don't you all get togetherand be 'they' yourselves?"

Archer's laugh lingered on his lips in a slightlycondescending smile. It was useless to prolongthe discussion: everybody knew the melan-

choly fate of the few gentlemen who had riskedtheir clean linen in municipal or state politics inNew York. The day was past when that sort ofthing was possible: the country was in posses-sion of the bosses and the emigrant, and decentpeople had to fall back on sport or culture.

"Culture! Yes—if we had it! But there are just afew little local patches, dying out here andthere for lack of—well, hoeing and cross-fertilising: the last remnants of the old Euro-pean tradition that your forebears brought withthem. But you're in a pitiful little minority:you've got no centre, no competition, no audi-ence. You're like the pictures on the walls of adeserted house: 'The Portrait of a Gentleman.'You'll never amount to anything, any of you,till you roll up your sleeves and get right downinto the muck. That, or emigrate ... God! If Icould emigrate ..."

Archer mentally shrugged his shoulders andturned the conversation back to books, where

Winsett, if uncertain, was always interesting.Emigrate! As if a gentleman could abandon hisown country! One could no more do that thanone could roll up one's sleeves and go downinto the muck. A gentleman simply stayed athome and abstained. But you couldn't make aman like Winsett see that; and that was why theNew York of literary clubs and exotic restau-rants, though a first shake made it seem moreof a kaleidoscope, turned out, in the end, to bea smaller box, with a more monotonous pat-tern, than the assembled atoms of Fifth Avenue.

The next morning Archer scoured the town invain for more yellow roses. In consequence ofthis search he arrived late at the office, per-ceived that his doing so made no differencewhatever to any one, and was filled with sud-den exasperation at the elaborate futility of hislife. Why should he not be, at that moment, onthe sands of St. Augustine with May Welland?

No one was deceived by his pretense of profes-sional activity. In old-fashioned legal firms likethat of which Mr. Letterblair was the head, andwhich were mainly engaged in the manage-ment of large estates and "conservative" in-vestments, there were always two or threeyoung men, fairly well-off, and without profes-sional ambition, who, for a certain number ofhours of each day, sat at their desks accom-plishing trivial tasks, or simply reading thenewspapers. Though it was supposed to beproper for them to have an occupation, thecrude fact of money-making was still regardedas derogatory, and the law, being a profession,was accounted a more gentlemanly pursuitthan business. But none of these young menhad much hope of really advancing in his pro-fession, or any earnest desire to do so; and overmany of them the green mould of the perfunc-tory was already perceptibly spreading.

It made Archer shiver to think that it might bespreading over him too. He had, to be sure,other tastes and interests; he spent his vacationsin European travel, cultivated the "clever peo-ple" May spoke of, and generally tried to "keepup," as he had somewhat wistfully put it toMadame Olenska. But once he was married,what would become of this narrow margin oflife in which his real experiences were lived?He had seen enough of other young men whohad dreamed his dream, though perhaps lessardently, and who had gradually sunk into theplacid and luxurious routine of their elders.

From the office he sent a note by messenger toMadame Olenska, asking if he might call thatafternoon, and begging her to let him find areply at his club; but at the club he found noth-ing, nor did he receive any letter the followingday. This unexpected silence mortified himbeyond reason, and though the next morninghe saw a glorious cluster of yellow roses behind

a florist's window-pane, he left it there. It wasonly on the third morning that he received aline by post from the Countess Olenska. To hissurprise it was dated from Skuytercliff, whitherthe van der Luydens had promptly retreatedafter putting the Duke on board his steamer.

"I ran away," the writer began abruptly (with-out the usual preliminaries), "the day after Isaw you at the play, and these kind friendshave taken me in. I wanted to be quiet, andthink things over. You were right in telling mehow kind they were; I feel myself so safe here. Iwish that you were with us." She ended with aconventional "Yours sincerely," and withoutany allusion to the date of her return.

The tone of the note surprised the young man.What was Madame Olenska running awayfrom, and why did she feel the need to be safe?His first thought was of some dark menacefrom abroad; then he reflected that he did notknow her epistolary style, and that it might run

to picturesque exaggeration. Women alwaysexaggerated; and moreover she was not whollyat her ease in English, which she often spoke asif she were translating from the French. "Je mesuis evadee—" put in that way, the openingsentence immediately suggested that she mightmerely have wanted to escape from a boringround of engagements; which was very likelytrue, for he judged her to be capricious, andeasily wearied of the pleasure of the moment.

It amused him to think of the van der Luydens'having carried her off to Skuytercliff on a sec-ond visit, and this time for an indefinite period.The doors of Skuytercliff were rarely andgrudgingly opened to visitors, and a chillyweek-end was the most ever offered to the fewthus privileged. But Archer had seen, on hislast visit to Paris, the delicious play of Labiche,"Le Voyage de M. Perrichon," and he remem-bered M. Perrichon's dogged and undiscour-aged attachment to the young man whom he

had pulled out of the glacier. The van der Luy-dens had rescued Madame Olenska from adoom almost as icy; and though there weremany other reasons for being attracted to her,Archer knew that beneath them all lay the gen-tle and obstinate determination to go on rescu-ing her.

He felt a distinct disappointment on learningthat she was away; and almost immediatelyremembered that, only the day before, he hadrefused an invitation to spend the followingSunday with the Reggie Chiverses at theirhouse on the Hudson, a few miles belowSkuytercliff.

He had had his fill long ago of the noisyfriendly parties at Highbank, with coasting, ice-boating, sleighing, long tramps in the snow,and a general flavour of mild flirting andmilder practical jokes. He had just received abox of new books from his London book-seller,and had preferred the prospect of a quiet Sun-

day at home with his spoils. But he now wentinto the club writing-room, wrote a hurriedtelegram, and told the servant to send it imme-diately. He knew that Mrs. Reggie didn't objectto her visitors' suddenly changing their minds,and that there was always a room to spare inher elastic house.

XV.

Newland Archer arrived at the Chiverses' onFriday evening, and on Saturday went consci-entiously through all the rites appertaining to aweek-end at Highbank.

In the morning he had a spin in the ice-boatwith his hostess and a few of the hardierguests; in the afternoon he "went over the farm"with Reggie, and listened, in the elaboratelyappointed stables, to long and impressive dis-

quisitions on the horse; after tea he talked in acorner of the firelit hall with a young lady whohad professed herself broken-hearted when hisengagement was announced, but was now ea-ger to tell him of her own matrimonial hopes;and finally, about midnight, he assisted in put-ting a gold-fish in one visitor's bed, dressed upa burglar in the bath-room of a nervous aunt,and saw in the small hours by joining in a pil-low-fight that ranged from the nurseries to thebasement. But on Sunday after luncheon heborrowed a cutter, and drove over to Skuyter-cliff.

People had always been told that the house atSkuytercliff was an Italian villa. Those who hadnever been to Italy believed it; so did some whohad. The house had been built by Mr. van derLuyden in his youth, on his return from the"grand tour," and in anticipation of his ap-proaching marriage with Miss Louisa Dagonet.It was a large square wooden structure, with

tongued and grooved walls painted pale greenand white, a Corinthian portico, and fluted pi-lasters between the windows. From the highground on which it stood a series of terracesbordered by balustrades and urns descended inthe steel-engraving style to a small irregularlake with an asphalt edge overhung by rareweeping conifers. To the right and left, the fa-mous weedless lawns studded with "specimen"trees (each of a different variety) rolled away tolong ranges of grass crested with elaborate cast-iron ornaments; and below, in a hollow, lay thefour-roomed stone house which the first Pa-troon had built on the land granted him in1612.

Against the uniform sheet of snow and thegreyish winter sky the Italian villa loomed uprather grimly; even in summer it kept its dis-tance, and the boldest coleus bed had neverventured nearer than thirty feet from its awfulfront. Now, as Archer rang the bell, the long

tinkle seemed to echo through a mausoleum;and the surprise of the butler who at lengthresponded to the call was as great as though hehad been summoned from his final sleep.

Happily Archer was of the family, and there-fore, irregular though his arrival was, entitledto be informed that the Countess Olenska wasout, having driven to afternoon service withMrs. van der Luyden exactly three quarters ofan hour earlier.

"Mr. van der Luyden," the butler continued, "isin, sir; but my impression is that he is eitherfinishing his nap or else reading yesterday'sEvening Post. I heard him say, sir, on his returnfrom church this morning, that he intended tolook through the Evening Post after luncheon;if you like, sir, I might go to the library doorand listen—"

But Archer, thanking him, said that he wouldgo and meet the ladies; and the butler, obvi-

ously relieved, closed the door on him majesti-cally.

A groom took the cutter to the stables, andArcher struck through the park to the high-road. The village of Skuytercliff was only a mileand a half away, but he knew that Mrs. van derLuyden never walked, and that he must keep tothe road to meet the carriage. Presently, how-ever, coming down a foot-path that crossed thehighway, he caught sight of a slight figure in ared cloak, with a big dog running ahead. Hehurried forward, and Madame Olenskastopped short with a smile of welcome.

"Ah, you've come!" she said, and drew herhand from her muff.

The red cloak made her look gay and vivid, likethe Ellen Mingott of old days; and he laughedas he took her hand, and answered: "I came tosee what you were running away from."

Her face clouded over, but she answered: "Ah,well—you will see, presently."

The answer puzzled him. "Why—do you meanthat you've been overtaken?"

She shrugged her shoulders, with a littlemovement like Nastasia's, and rejoined in alighter tone: "Shall we walk on? I'm so coldafter the sermon. And what does it matter, nowyou're here to protect me?"

The blood rose to his temples and he caught afold of her cloak. "Ellen—what is it? You musttell me."

"Oh, presently—let's run a race first: my feetare freezing to the ground," she cried; andgathering up the cloak she fled away across thesnow, the dog leaping about her with challeng-ing barks. For a moment Archer stood watch-ing, his gaze delighted by the flash of the redmeteor against the snow; then he started after

her, and they met, panting and laughing, at awicket that led into the park.

She looked up at him and smiled. "I knewyou'd come!"

"That shows you wanted me to," he returned,with a disproportionate joy in their nonsense.The white glitter of the trees filled the air withits own mysterious brightness, and as theywalked on over the snow the ground seemed tosing under their feet.

"Where did you come from?" Madame Olenskaasked.

He told her, and added: "It was because I gotyour note."

After a pause she said, with a just perceptiblechill in her voice: "May asked you to take careof me."

"I didn't need any asking."

"You mean—I'm so evidently helpless and de-fenceless? What a poor thing you must all thinkme! But women here seem not—seem never tofeel the need: any more than the blessed inheaven."

He lowered his voice to ask: "What sort of aneed?"

"Ah, don't ask me! I don't speak your lan-guage," she retorted petulantly.

The answer smote him like a blow, and hestood still in the path, looking down at her.

"What did I come for, if I don't speak yours?"

"Oh, my friend—!" She laid her hand lightly onhis arm, and he pleaded earnestly: "Ellen—whywon't you tell me what's happened?"

She shrugged again. "Does anything ever hap-pen in heaven?"

He was silent, and they walked on a few yardswithout exchanging a word. Finally she said: "Iwill tell you—but where, where, where? Onecan't be alone for a minute in that great semi-nary of a house, with all the doors wide open,and always a servant bringing tea, or a log forthe fire, or the newspaper! Is there nowhere inan American house where one may be by one'sself? You're so shy, and yet you're so public. Ialways feel as if I were in the convent again—oron the stage, before a dreadfully polite audi-ence that never applauds."

"Ah, you don't like us!" Archer exclaimed.

They were walking past the house of the oldPatroon, with its squat walls and small squarewindows compactly grouped about a centralchimney. The shutters stood wide, and throughone of the newly-washed windows Archercaught the light of a fire.

"Why—the house is open!" he said.

She stood still. "No; only for today, at least. Iwanted to see it, and Mr. van der Luyden hadthe fire lit and the windows opened, so that wemight stop there on the way back from churchthis morning." She ran up the steps and triedthe door. "It's still unlocked—what luck! Comein and we can have a quiet talk. Mrs. van derLuyden has driven over to see her old aunts atRhinebeck and we shan't be missed at thehouse for another hour."

He followed her into the narrow passage. Hisspirits, which had dropped at her last words,rose with an irrational leap. The homely littlehouse stood there, its panels and brasses shin-ing in the firelight, as if magically created toreceive them. A big bed of embers still gleamedin the kitchen chimney, under an iron pot hungfrom an ancient crane. Rush-bottomed arm-chairs faced each other across the tiled hearth,and rows of Delft plates stood on shelves

against the walls. Archer stooped over andthrew a log upon the embers.

Madame Olenska, dropping her cloak, satdown in one of the chairs. Archer leanedagainst the chimney and looked at her.

"You're laughing now; but when you wrote meyou were unhappy," he said.

"Yes." She paused. "But I can't feel unhappywhen you're here."

"I sha'n't be here long," he rejoined, his lipsstiffening with the effort to say just so muchand no more.

"No; I know. But I'm improvident: I live in themoment when I'm happy."

The words stole through him like a temptation,and to close his senses to it he moved awayfrom the hearth and stood gazing out at theblack tree-boles against the snow. But it was as

if she too had shifted her place, and he still sawher, between himself and the trees, droopingover the fire with her indolent smile. Archer'sheart was beating insubordinately. What if itwere from him that she had been runningaway, and if she had waited to tell him so tillthey were here alone together in this secretroom?

"Ellen, if I'm really a help to you—if you reallywanted me to come—tell me what's wrong, tellme what it is you're running away from," heinsisted.

He spoke without shifting his position, withouteven turning to look at her: if the thing was tohappen, it was to happen in this way, with thewhole width of the room between them, andhis eyes still fixed on the outer snow.

For a long moment she was silent; and in thatmoment Archer imagined her, almost heardher, stealing up behind him to throw her light

arms about his neck. While he waited, soul andbody throbbing with the miracle to come, hiseyes mechanically received the image of aheavily-coated man with his fur collar turnedup who was advancing along the path to thehouse. The man was Julius Beaufort.

"Ah—!" Archer cried, bursting into a laugh.

Madame Olenska had sprung up and moved tohis side, slipping her hand into his; but after aglance through the window her face paled andshe shrank back.

"So that was it?" Archer said derisively.

"I didn't know he was here," Madame Olenskamurmured. Her hand still clung to Archer's;but he drew away from her, and walking outinto the passage threw open the door of thehouse.

"Hallo, Beaufort—this way! Madame Olenskawas expecting you," he said.

During his journey back to New York the nextmorning, Archer relived with a fatiguing viv-idness his last moments at Skuytercliff.

Beaufort, though clearly annoyed at findinghim with Madame Olenska, had, as usual, car-ried off the situation high-handedly. His way ofignoring people whose presence inconven-ienced him actually gave them, if they weresensitive to it, a feeling of invisibility, of non-existence. Archer, as the three strolled backthrough the park, was aware of this odd senseof disembodiment; and humbling as it was tohis vanity it gave him the ghostly advantage ofobserving unobserved.

Beaufort had entered the little house with hisusual easy assurance; but he could not smileaway the vertical line between his eyes. It was

fairly clear that Madame Olenska had notknown that he was coming, though her wordsto Archer had hinted at the possibility; at anyrate, she had evidently not told him where shewas going when she left New York, and herunexplained departure had exasperated him.The ostensible reason of his appearance was thediscovery, the very night before, of a "perfectlittle house," not in the market, which wasreally just the thing for her, but would besnapped up instantly if she didn't take it; andhe was loud in mock-reproaches for the danceshe had led him in running away just as he hadfound it.

"If only this new dodge for talking along a wirehad been a little bit nearer perfection I mighthave told you all this from town, and beentoasting my toes before the club fire at thisminute, instead of tramping after you throughthe snow," he grumbled, disguising a real irrita-tion under the pretence of it; and at this open-

ing Madame Olenska twisted the talk away tothe fantastic possibility that they might one dayactually converse with each other from street tostreet, or even—incredible dream!—from onetown to another. This struck from all three allu-sions to Edgar Poe and Jules Verne, and suchplatitudes as naturally rise to the lips of themost intelligent when they are talking againsttime, and dealing with a new invention inwhich it would seem ingenuous to believe toosoon; and the question of the telephone carriedthem safely back to the big house.

Mrs. van der Luyden had not yet returned; andArcher took his leave and walked off to fetchthe cutter, while Beaufort followed the Count-ess Olenska indoors. It was probable that, littleas the van der Luydens encouraged unan-nounced visits, he could count on being askedto dine, and sent back to the station to catch thenine o'clock train; but more than that he wouldcertainly not get, for it would be inconceivable

to his hosts that a gentleman travelling withoutluggage should wish to spend the night, anddistasteful to them to propose it to a personwith whom they were on terms of such limitedcordiality as Beaufort.

Beaufort knew all this, and must have foreseenit; and his taking the long journey for so small areward gave the measure of his impatience. Hewas undeniably in pursuit of the CountessOlenska; and Beaufort had only one object inview in his pursuit of pretty women. His dulland childless home had long since palled onhim; and in addition to more permanent conso-lations he was always in quest of amorous ad-ventures in his own set. This was the man fromwhom Madame Olenska was avowedly flying:the question was whether she had fled becausehis importunities displeased her, or because shedid not wholly trust herself to resist them;unless, indeed, all her talk of flight had been a

blind, and her departure no more than a ma-noeuvre.

Archer did not really believe this. Little as hehad actually seen of Madame Olenska, he wasbeginning to think that he could read her face,and if not her face, her voice; and both had be-trayed annoyance, and even dismay, at Beau-fort's sudden appearance. But, after all, if thiswere the case, was it not worse than if she hadleft New York for the express purpose of meet-ing him? If she had done that, she ceased to bean object of interest, she threw in her lot withthe vulgarest of dissemblers: a woman engagedin a love affair with Beaufort "classed" herselfirretrievably.

No, it was worse a thousand times if, judgingBeaufort, and probably despising him, she wasyet drawn to him by all that gave him an ad-vantage over the other men about her: his habitof two continents and two societies, his familiarassociation with artists and actors and people

generally in the world's eye, and his carelesscontempt for local prejudices. Beaufort wasvulgar, he was uneducated, he was purse-proud; but the circumstances of his life, and acertain native shrewdness, made him betterworth talking to than many men, morally andsocially his betters, whose horizon wasbounded by the Battery and the Central Park.How should any one coming from a widerworld not feel the difference and be attractedby it?

Madame Olenska, in a burst of irritation, hadsaid to Archer that he and she did not talk thesame language; and the young man knew thatin some respects this was true. But Beaufortunderstood every turn of her dialect, and spokeit fluently: his view of life, his tone, his attitude,were merely a coarser reflection of those re-vealed in Count Olenski's letter. This mightseem to be to his disadvantage with CountOlenski's wife; but Archer was too intelligent to

think that a young woman like Ellen Olenskawould necessarily recoil from everything thatreminded her of her past. She might believeherself wholly in revolt against it; but what hadcharmed her in it would still charm her, eventhough it were against her will.

Thus, with a painful impartiality, did theyoung man make out the case for Beaufort, andfor Beaufort's victim. A longing to enlighten herwas strong in him; and there were momentswhen he imagined that all she asked was to beenlightened.

That evening he unpacked his books from Lon-don. The box was full of things he had beenwaiting for impatiently; a new volume of Her-bert Spencer, another collection of the prolificAlphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novelcalled "Middlemarch," as to which there hadlately been interesting things said in the re-views. He had declined three dinner invitationsin favour of this feast; but though he turned the

pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover,he did not know what he was reading, and onebook after another dropped from his hand.Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small vol-ume of verse which he had ordered because thename had attracted him: "The House of Life."He took it up, and found himself plunged in anatmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed inbooks; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffablytender, that it gave a new and haunting beautyto the most elementary of human passions. Allthrough the night he pursued through thoseenchanted pages the vision of a woman whohad the face of Ellen Olenska; but when hewoke the next morning, and looked out at thebrownstone houses across the street, andthought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office,and the family pew in Grace Church, his hourin the park of Skuytercliff became as far outsidethe pale of probability as the visions of thenight.

"Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!" Janeycommented over the coffee-cups at breakfast;and his mother added: "Newland, dear, I'venoticed lately that you've been coughing; I dohope you're not letting yourself be over-worked?" For it was the conviction of both la-dies that, under the iron despotism of his seniorpartners, the young man's life was spent in themost exhausting professional labours—and hehad never thought it necessary to undeceivethem.

The next two or three days dragged by heavily.The taste of the usual was like cinders in hismouth, and there were moments when he feltas if he were being buried alive under his fu-ture. He heard nothing of the Countess Olen-ska, or of the perfect little house, and though hemet Beaufort at the club they merely nodded ateach other across the whist-tables. It was not tillthe fourth evening that he found a note await-ing him on his return home. "Come late tomor-

row: I must explain to you. Ellen." These werethe only words it contained.

The young man, who was dining out, thrust thenote into his pocket, smiling a little at theFrenchness of the "to you." After dinner hewent to a play; and it was not until his returnhome, after midnight, that he drew MadameOlenska's missive out again and re-read itslowly a number of times. There were severalways of answering it, and he gave considerablethought to each one during the watches of anagitated night. That on which, when morningcame, he finally decided was to pitch someclothes into a portmanteau and jump on boarda boat that was leaving that very afternoon forSt. Augustine.

XVI.

When Archer walked down the sandy mainstreet of St. Augustine to the house which hadbeen pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, andsaw May Welland standing under a magnoliawith the sun in her hair, he wondered why hehad waited so long to come.

Here was the truth, here was reality, here wasthe life that belonged to him; and he, who fan-cied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints,had been afraid to break away from his deskbecause of what people might think of his steal-ing a holiday!

Her first exclamation was: "Newland—has any-thing happened?" and it occurred to him that itwould have been more "feminine" if she hadinstantly read in his eyes why he had come. Butwhen he answered: "Yes—I found I had to seeyou," her happy blushes took the chill from her

surprise, and he saw how easily he would beforgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair'smild disapproval would be smiled away by atolerant family.

Early as it was, the main street was no place forany but formal greetings, and Archer longed tobe alone with May, and to pour out all his ten-derness and his impatience. It still lacked anhour to the late Welland breakfast-time, andinstead of asking him to come in she proposedthat they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond the town. She had just been fora row on the river, and the sun that netted thelittle waves with gold seemed to have caughther in its meshes. Across the warm brown ofher cheek her blown hair glittered like silverwire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almostpale in their youthful limpidity. As she walkedbeside Archer with her long swinging gait herface wore the vacant serenity of a young marbleathlete.

To Archer's strained nerves the vision was assoothing as the sight of the blue sky and thelazy river. They sat down on a bench under theorange-trees and he put his arm about her andkissed her. It was like drinking at a cold springwith the sun on it; but his pressure may havebeen more vehement than he had intended, forthe blood rose to her face and she drew back asif he had startled her.

"What is it?" he asked, smiling; and she lookedat him with surprise, and answered: "Nothing."

A slight embarrassment fell on them, and herhand slipped out of his. It was the only timethat he had kissed her on the lips except fortheir fugitive embrace in the Beaufort conserva-tory, and he saw that she was disturbed, andshaken out of her cool boyish composure.

"Tell me what you do all day," he said, crossinghis arms under his tilted-back head, and push-ing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle. To

let her talk about familiar and simple thingswas the easiest way of carrying on his own in-dependent train of thought; and he sat listeningto her simple chronicle of swimming, sailingand riding, varied by an occasional dance at theprimitive inn when a man-of-war came in. Afew pleasant people from Philadelphia andBaltimore were picknicking at the inn, and theSelfridge Merrys had come down for threeweeks because Kate Merry had had bronchitis.They were planning to lay out a lawn tenniscourt on the sands; but no one but Kate andMay had racquets, and most of the people hadnot even heard of the game.

All this kept her very busy, and she had nothad time to do more than look at the little vel-lum book that Archer had sent her the weekbefore (the "Sonnets from the Portuguese"); butshe was learning by heart "How they broughtthe Good News from Ghent to Aix," because itwas one of the first things he had ever read to

her; and it amused her to be able to tell himthat Kate Merry had never even heard of a poetcalled Robert Browning.

Presently she started up, exclaiming that theywould be late for breakfast; and they hurriedback to the tumble-down house with its point-less porch and unpruned hedge of plumbagoand pink geraniums where the Wellands wereinstalled for the winter. Mr. Welland's sensitivedomesticity shrank from the discomforts of theslovenly southern hotel, and at immense ex-pense, and in face of almost insuperable diffi-culties, Mrs. Welland was obliged, year afteryear, to improvise an establishment partlymade up of discontented New York servantsand partly drawn from the local African sup-ply.

"The doctors want my husband to feel that he isin his own home; otherwise he would be sowretched that the climate would not do himany good," she explained, winter after winter,

to the sympathising Philadelphians and Balti-moreans; and Mr. Welland, beaming across abreakfast table miraculously supplied with themost varied delicacies, was presently saying toArcher: "You see, my dear fellow, we camp—we literally camp. I tell my wife and May that Iwant to teach them how to rough it."

Mr. and Mrs. Welland had been as much sur-prised as their daughter by the young man'ssudden arrival; but it had occurred to him toexplain that he had felt himself on the verge ofa nasty cold, and this seemed to Mr. Wellandan all-sufficient reason for abandoning anyduty.

"You can't be too careful, especially towardspring," he said, heaping his plate with straw-coloured griddle-cakes and drowning them ingolden syrup. "If I'd only been as prudent atyour age May would have been dancing at theAssemblies now, instead of spending her win-ters in a wilderness with an old invalid."

"Oh, but I love it here, Papa; you know I do. Ifonly Newland could stay I should like it athousand times better than New York."

"Newland must stay till he has quite thrown offhis cold," said Mrs. Welland indulgently; andthe young man laughed, and said he supposedthere was such a thing as one's profession.

He managed, however, after an exchange oftelegrams with the firm, to make his cold last aweek; and it shed an ironic light on the situa-tion to know that Mr. Letterblair's indulgencewas partly due to the satisfactory way in whichhis brilliant young junior partner had settledthe troublesome matter of the Olenski divorce.Mr. Letterblair had let Mrs. Welland know thatMr. Archer had "rendered an invaluable ser-vice" to the whole family, and that old Mrs.Manson Mingott had been particularly pleased;and one day when May had gone for a drivewith her father in the only vehicle the placeproduced Mrs. Welland took occasion to touch

on a topic which she always avoided in herdaughter's presence.

"I'm afraid Ellen's ideas are not at all like ours.She was barely eighteen when Medora Mansontook her back to Europe—you remember theexcitement when she appeared in black at hercoming-out ball? Another of Medora's fads—really this time it was almost prophetic! Thatmust have been at least twelve years ago; andsince then Ellen has never been to America. Nowonder she is completely Europeanised."

"But European society is not given to divorce:Countess Olenska thought she would be con-forming to American ideas in asking for herfreedom." It was the first time that the youngman had pronounced her name since he hadleft Skuytercliff, and he felt the colour rise tohis cheek.

Mrs. Welland smiled compassionately. "That isjust like the extraordinary things that foreigners

invent about us. They think we dine at twoo'clock and countenance divorce! That is why itseems to me so foolish to entertain them whenthey come to New York. They accept our hospi-tality, and then they go home and repeat thesame stupid stories."

Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs.Welland continued: "But we do most thor-oughly appreciate your persuading Ellen togive up the idea. Her grandmother and heruncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both ofthem have written that her changing her mindwas entirely due to your influence—in fact shesaid so to her grandmother. She has an un-bounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen—shewas always a wayward child. I wonder whather fate will be?"

"What we've all contrived to make it," he feltlike answering. "If you'd all of you rather sheshould be Beaufort's mistress than some decent

fellow's wife you've certainly gone the rightway about it."

He wondered what Mrs. Welland would havesaid if he had uttered the words instead ofmerely thinking them. He could picture thesudden decomposure of her firm placid fea-tures, to which a lifelong mastery over trifleshad given an air of factitious authority. Tracesstill lingered on them of a fresh beauty like herdaughter's; and he asked himself if May's facewas doomed to thicken into the same middle-aged image of invincible innocence.

Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kindof innocence, the innocence that seals the mindagainst imagination and the heart against ex-perience!

"I verily believe," Mrs. Welland continued, "thatif the horrible business had come out in thenewspapers it would have been my husband'sdeath-blow. I don't know any of the details; I

only ask not to, as I told poor Ellen when shetried to talk to me about it. Having an invalidto care for, I have to keep my mind bright andhappy. But Mr. Welland was terribly upset; hehad a slight temperature every morning whilewe were waiting to hear what had been de-cided. It was the horror of his girl's learningthat such things were possible—but of course,dear Newland, you felt that too. We all knewthat you were thinking of May."

"I'm always thinking of May," the young manrejoined, rising to cut short the conversation.

He had meant to seize the opportunity of hisprivate talk with Mrs. Welland to urge her toadvance the date of his marriage. But he couldthink of no arguments that would move her,and with a sense of relief he saw Mr. Wellandand May driving up to the door.

His only hope was to plead again with May,and on the day before his departure he walked

with her to the ruinous garden of the SpanishMission. The background lent itself to allusionsto European scenes; and May, who was lookingher loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat thatcast a shadow of mystery over her too-cleareyes, kindled into eagerness as he spoke ofGranada and the Alhambra.

"We might be seeing it all this spring—even theEaster ceremonies at Seville," he urged, exag-gerating his demands in the hope of a largerconcession.

"Easter in Seville? And it will be Lent nextweek!" she laughed.

"Why shouldn't we be married in Lent?" herejoined; but she looked so shocked that he sawhis mistake.

"Of course I didn't mean that, dearest; but soonafter Easter—so that we could sail at the end ofApril. I know I could arrange it at the office."

She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; buthe perceived that to dream of it sufficed her. Itwas like hearing him read aloud out of his po-etry books the beautiful things that could notpossibly happen in real life.

"Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your de-scriptions."

"But why should they be only descriptions?Why shouldn't we make them real?"

"We shall, dearest, of course; next year." Hervoice lingered over it.

"Don't you want them to be real sooner? Can't Ipersuade you to break away now?"

She bowed her head, vanishing from him un-der her conniving hat-brim.

"Why should we dream away another year?Look at me, dear! Don't you understand how Iwant you for my wife?"

For a moment she remained motionless; thenshe raised on him eyes of such despairingdearness that he half-released her waist fromhis hold. But suddenly her look changed anddeepened inscrutably. "I'm not sure if I DO un-derstand," she said. "Is it—is it because you'renot certain of continuing to care for me?"

Archer sprang up from his seat. "My God—perhaps—I don't know," he broke out angrily.

May Welland rose also; as they faced each othershe seemed to grow in womanly stature anddignity. Both were silent for a moment, as ifdismayed by the unforeseen trend of theirwords: then she said in a low voice: "If that isit—is there some one else?"

"Some one else—between you and me?" Heechoed her words slowly, as though they wereonly half-intelligible and he wanted time torepeat the question to himself. She seemed tocatch the uncertainty of his voice, for she went

on in a deepening tone: "Let us talk frankly,Newland. Sometimes I've felt a difference inyou; especially since our engagement has beenannounced."

"Dear—what madness!" he recovered himself toexclaim.

She met his protest with a faint smile. "If it is, itwon't hurt us to talk about it." She paused, andadded, lifting her head with one of her noblemovements: "Or even if it's true: why shouldn'twe speak of it? You might so easily have madea mistake."

He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny path at their feet. "Mis-takes are always easy to make; but if I hadmade one of the kind you suggest, is it likelythat I should be imploring you to hasten ourmarriage?"

She looked downward too, disturbing the pat-tern with the point of her sunshade while shestruggled for expression. "Yes," she said atlength. "You might want—once for all—to set-tle the question: it's one way."

Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mis-lead him into thinking her insensible. Underher hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile,and a slight tremor of the nostril above herresolutely steadied lips.

"Well—?" he questioned, sitting down on thebench, and looking up at her with a frown thathe tried to make playful.

She dropped back into her seat and went on:"You mustn't think that a girl knows as little asher parents imagine. One hears and one no-tices—one has one's feelings and ideas. And ofcourse, long before you told me that you caredfor me, I'd known that there was some one elseyou were interested in; every one was talking

about it two years ago at Newport. And once Isaw you sitting together on the verandah at adance—and when she came back into the househer face was sad, and I felt sorry for her; I re-membered it afterward, when we were en-gaged."

Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, andshe sat clasping and unclasping her handsabout the handle of her sunshade. The youngman laid his upon them with a gentle pressure;his heart dilated with an inexpressible relief.

"My dear child—was THAT it? If you onlyknew the truth!"

She raised her head quickly. "Then there is atruth I don't know?"

He kept his hand over hers. "I meant, the truthabout the old story you speak of."

"But that's what I want to know, Newland—what I ought to know. I couldn't have my hap-piness made out of a wrong—an unfairness—tosomebody else. And I want to believe that itwould be the same with you. What sort of a lifecould we build on such foundations?"

Her face had taken on a look of such tragiccourage that he felt like bowing himself downat her feet. "I've wanted to say this for a longtime," she went on. "I've wanted to tell you that,when two people really love each other, I un-derstand that there may be situations whichmake it right that they should—should goagainst public opinion. And if you feel yourselfin any way pledged ... pledged to the personwe've spoken of ... and if there is any way ...any way in which you can fulfill your pledge ...even by her getting a divorce ... Newland, don'tgive her up because of me!"

His surprise at discovering that her fears hadfastened upon an episode so remote and so

completely of the past as his love-affair withMrs. Thorley Rushworth gave way to wonderat the generosity of her view. There was some-thing superhuman in an attitude so recklesslyunorthodox, and if other problems had notpressed on him he would have been lost inwonder at the prodigy of the Wellands' daugh-ter urging him to marry his former mistress.But he was still dizzy with the glimpse of theprecipice they had skirted, and full of a newawe at the mystery of young-girlhood.

For a moment he could not speak; then he said:"There is no pledge—no obligation whatever—of the kind you think. Such cases don't al-ways—present themselves quite as simply as ...But that's no matter ... I love your generosity,because I feel as you do about those things ... Ifeel that each case must be judged individually,on its own merits ... irrespective of stupid con-ventionalities ... I mean, each woman's right toher liberty—" He pulled himself up, startled by

the turn his thoughts had taken, and went on,looking at her with a smile: "Since you under-stand so many things, dearest, can't you go alittle farther, and understand the uselessness ofour submitting to another form of the samefoolish conventionalities? If there's no one andnothing between us, isn't that an argument formarrying quickly, rather than for more delay?"

She flushed with joy and lifted her face to his;as he bent to it he saw that her eyes were full ofhappy tears. But in another moment sheseemed to have descended from her womanlyeminence to helpless and timorous girlhood;and he understood that her courage and initia-tive were all for others, and that she had nonefor herself. It was evident that the effort ofspeaking had been much greater than her stud-ied composure betrayed, and that at his firstword of reassurance she had dropped back intothe usual, as a too-adventurous child takes ref-uge in its mother's arms.

Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her;he was too much disappointed at the vanishingof the new being who had cast that one deeplook at him from her transparent eyes. Mayseemed to be aware of his disappointment, butwithout knowing how to alleviate it; and theystood up and walked silently home.

XVII.

"Your cousin the Countess called on motherwhile you were away," Janey Archer an-nounced to her brother on the evening of hisreturn.

The young man, who was dining alone with hismother and sister, glanced up in surprise andsaw Mrs. Archer's gaze demurely bent on herplate. Mrs. Archer did not regard her seclusionfrom the world as a reason for being forgotten

by it; and Newland guessed that she wasslightly annoyed that he should be surprised byMadame Olenska's visit.

"She had on a black velvet polonaise with jetbuttons, and a tiny green monkey muff; I neversaw her so stylishly dressed," Janey continued."She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon;luckily the fire was lit in the drawing-room. Shehad one of those new card-cases. She said shewanted to know us because you'd been so goodto her."

Newland laughed. "Madame Olenska alwaystakes that tone about her friends. She's veryhappy at being among her own people again."

"Yes, so she told us," said Mrs. Archer. "I mustsay she seems thankful to be here."

"I hope you liked her, mother."

Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. "She cer-tainly lays herself out to please, even when sheis calling on an old lady."

"Mother doesn't think her simple," Janey inter-jected, her eyes screwed upon her brother'sface.

"It's just my old-fashioned feeling; dear May ismy ideal," said Mrs. Archer.

"Ah," said her son, "they're not alike."

Archer had left St. Augustine charged withmany messages for old Mrs. Mingott; and a dayor two after his return to town he called on her.

The old lady received him with unusualwarmth; she was grateful to him for persuad-ing the Countess Olenska to give up the idea ofa divorce; and when he told her that he haddeserted the office without leave, and rushed

down to St. Augustine simply because hewanted to see May, she gave an adiposechuckle and patted his knee with her puff-ballhand.

"Ah, ah—so you kicked over the traces, didyou? And I suppose Augusta and Wellandpulled long faces, and behaved as if the end ofthe world had come? But little May—she knewbetter, I'll be bound?"

"I hoped she did; but after all she wouldn'tagree to what I'd gone down to ask for."

"Wouldn't she indeed? And what was that?"

"I wanted to get her to promise that we shouldbe married in April. What's the use of our wast-ing another year?"

Mrs. Manson Mingott screwed up her littlemouth into a grimace of mimic prudery andtwinkled at him through malicious lids. "'Ask

Mamma,' I suppose—the usual story. Ah, theseMingotts—all alike! Born in a rut, and you can'troot 'em out of it. When I built this house you'dhave thought I was moving to California! No-body ever HAD built above Fortieth Street—no,says I, nor above the Battery either, beforeChristopher Columbus discovered America.No, no; not one of them wants to be different;they're as scared of it as the small-pox. Ah, mydear Mr. Archer, I thank my stars I'm nothingbut a vulgar Spicer; but there's not one of myown children that takes after me but my littleEllen." She broke off, still twinkling at him, andasked, with the casual irrelevance of old age:"Now, why in the world didn't you marry mylittle Ellen?"

Archer laughed. "For one thing, she wasn'tthere to be married."

"No—to be sure; more's the pity. And now it'stoo late; her life is finished." She spoke with thecold-blooded complacency of the aged throw-

ing earth into the grave of young hopes. Theyoung man's heart grew chill, and he said hur-riedly: "Can't I persuade you to use your influ-ence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn'tmade for long engagements."

Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly."No; I can see that. You've got a quick eye.When you were a little boy I've no doubt youliked to be helped first." She threw back herhead with a laugh that made her chins ripplelike little waves. "Ah, here's my Ellen now!" sheexclaimed, as the portieres parted behind her.

Madame Olenska came forward with a smile.Her face looked vivid and happy, and she heldout her hand gaily to Archer while she stoopedto her grandmother's kiss.

"I was just saying to him, my dear: 'Now, whydidn't you marry my little Ellen?'"

Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smil-ing. "And what did he answer?"

"Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out!He's been down to Florida to see his sweet-heart."

"Yes, I know." She still looked at him. "I went tosee your mother, to ask where you'd gone. Isent a note that you never answered, and I wasafraid you were ill."

He muttered something about leaving unex-pectedly, in a great hurry, and having intendedto write to her from St. Augustine.

"And of course once you were there you neverthought of me again!" She continued to beamon him with a gaiety that might have been astudied assumption of indifference.

"If she still needs me, she's determined not tolet me see it," he thought, stung by her manner.

He wanted to thank her for having been to seehis mother, but under the ancestress's maliciouseye he felt himself tongue-tied and constrained.

"Look at him—in such hot haste to get marriedthat he took French leave and rushed down toimplore the silly girl on his knees! That's some-thing like a lover—that's the way handsomeBob Spicer carried off my poor mother; andthen got tired of her before I was weaned—though they only had to wait eight months forme! But there—you're not a Spicer, young man;luckily for you and for May. It's only my poorEllen that has kept any of their wicked blood;the rest of them are all model Mingotts," criedthe old lady scornfully.

Archer was aware that Madame Olenska, whohad seated herself at her grandmother's side,was still thoughtfully scrutinising him. Thegaiety had faded from her eyes, and she saidwith great gentleness: "Surely, Granny, we canpersuade them between us to do as he wishes."

Archer rose to go, and as his hand met MadameOlenska's he felt that she was waiting for himto make some allusion to her unanswered let-ter.

"When can I see you?" he asked, as she walkedwith him to the door of the room.

"Whenever you like; but it must be soon if youwant to see the little house again. I am movingnext week."

A pang shot through him at the memory of hislamplit hours in the low-studded drawing-room. Few as they had been, they were thickwith memories.

"Tomorrow evening?"

She nodded. "Tomorrow; yes; but early. I'mgoing out."

The next day was a Sunday, and if she were"going out" on a Sunday evening it could, of

course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. Hefelt a slight movement of annoyance, not somuch at her going there (for he rather liked hergoing where she pleased in spite of the van derLuydens), but because it was the kind of houseat which she was sure to meet Beaufort, whereshe must have known beforehand that shewould meet him—and where she was probablygoing for that purpose.

"Very well; tomorrow evening," he repeated,inwardly resolved that he would not go early,and that by reaching her door late he wouldeither prevent her from going to Mrs. Struth-ers's, or else arrive after she had started—which, all things considered, would no doubtbe the simplest solution.

It was only half-past eight, after all, when herang the bell under the wisteria; not as late ashe had intended by half an hour—but a singu-lar restlessness had driven him to her door. He

reflected, however, that Mrs. Struthers's Sun-day evenings were not like a ball, and that herguests, as if to minimise their delinquency,usually went early.

The one thing he had not counted on, in enter-ing Madame Olenska's hall, was to find hatsand overcoats there. Why had she bidden himto come early if she was having people to dine?On a closer inspection of the garments besideswhich Nastasia was laying his own, his re-sentment gave way to curiosity. The overcoatswere in fact the very strangest he had ever seenunder a polite roof; and it took but a glance toassure himself that neither of them belonged toJulius Beaufort. One was a shaggy yellow ulsterof "reach-me-down" cut, the other a very oldand rusty cloak with a cape—something likewhat the French called a "Macfarlane." Thisgarment, which appeared to be made for a per-son of prodigious size, had evidently seen longand hard wear, and its greenish-black folds

gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive ofprolonged sessions against bar-room walls. Onit lay a ragged grey scarf and an odd felt hat ofsemiclerical shape.

Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nas-tasia, who raised hers in return with a fatalistic"Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-roomdoor.

The young man saw at once that his hostesswas not in the room; then, with surprise, hediscovered another lady standing by the fire.This lady, who was long, lean and loosely puttogether, was clad in raiment intricately loopedand fringed, with plaids and stripes and bandsof plain colour disposed in a design to whichthe clue seemed missing. Her hair, which hadtried to turn white and only succeeded in fad-ing, was surmounted by a Spanish comb andblack lace scarf, and silk mittens, visiblydarned, covered her rheumatic hands.

Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood theowners of the two overcoats, both in morningclothes that they had evidently not taken offsince morning. In one of the two, Archer, to hissurprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other andolder, who was unknown to him, and whosegigantic frame declared him to be the wearer ofthe "Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine headwith crumpled grey hair, and moved his armswith large pawing gestures, as though he weredistributing lay blessings to a kneeling multi-tude.

These three persons stood together on thehearth-rug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinar-ily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knotof purple pansies at their base, that lay on thesofa where Madame Olenska usually sat.

"What they must have cost at this season—though of course it's the sentiment one caresabout!" the lady was saying in a sighing stac-cato as Archer came in.

The three turned with surprise at his appear-ance, and the lady, advancing, held out herhand.

"Dear Mr. Archer—almost my cousinNewland!" she said. "I am the MarchionessManson."

Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellenhas taken me in for a few days. I came fromCuba, where I have been spending the winterwith Spanish friends—such delightful distin-guished people: the highest nobility of old Cas-tile—how I wish you could know them! But Iwas called away by our dear great friend here,Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. AgathonCarver, founder of the Valley of Love Commu-nity?"

Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and theMarchioness continued: "Ah, New York—NewYork—how little the life of the spirit hasreached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett."

"Oh, yes—I reached him some time ago; but notby that route," Winsett said with his dry smile.

The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly."How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spiritbloweth where it listeth."

"List—oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a sten-torian murmur.

"But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four havebeen having a delightful little dinner together,and my child has gone up to dress. She expectsyou; she will be down in a moment. We werejust admiring these marvellous flowers, whichwill surprise her when she reappears."

Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I mustbe off. Please tell Madame Olenska that weshall all feel lost when she abandons our street.This house has been an oasis."

"Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry andart are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry youwrite, Mr. Winsett?"

"Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Win-sett, including the group in a general nod andslipping out of the room.

"A caustic spirit—un peu sauvage. But so witty;Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?"

"I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely.

"Ah—ah—you never think of wit! How merci-less he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! Buthe lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonighthe is mentally preparing the lecture he is todeliver presently at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver,would there be time, before you start for theBlenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illumi-nating discovery of the Direct Contact? But no;I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we have no

right to detain you while so many are waitingfor your message."

Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at thisconclusion, but, having compared his ponder-ous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska'slittle travelling-clock, he reluctantly gatheredup his mighty limbs for departure.

"I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggestedto the Marchioness, who replied with a smile:"As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will joinyou; I do hope the lecture won't have begun."

Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Per-haps, if this young gentleman is interested inmy experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow youto bring him with you?"

"Oh, dear friend, if it were possible—I am sureshe would be too happy. But I fear my Ellencounts on Mr. Archer herself."

"That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate—buthere is my card." He handed it to Archer, whoread on it, in Gothic characters:

+—————————————-+ | Agathon Carver | | The Valley of Love | | Kittasquattamy, N. Y. | +—————————————-+

Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Man-son, with a sigh that might have been either ofregret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat.

"Ellen will be down in a moment; and beforeshe comes, I am so glad of this quiet momentwith you."

Archer murmured his pleasure at their meet-ing, and the Marchioness continued, in her lowsighing accents: "I know everything, dear Mr.Archer—my child has told me all you havedone for her. Your wise advice: your coura-

geous firmness—thank heaven it was not toolate!"

The young man listened with considerable em-barrassment. Was there any one, he wondered,to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimedhis intervention in her private affairs?

"Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gaveher a legal opinion, as she asked me to."

"Ah, but in doing it—in doing it you were theunconscious instrument of—of—what wordhave we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?"cried the lady, tilting her head on one side anddrooping her lids mysteriously. "Little did youknow that at that very moment I was beingappealed to: being approached, in fact—fromthe other side of the Atlantic!"

She glanced over her shoulder, as though fear-ful of being overheard, and then, drawing herchair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to her

lips, breathed behind it: "By the Count him-self—my poor, mad, foolish Olenski; who asksonly to take her back on her own terms."

"Good God!" Archer exclaimed, springing up.

"You are horrified? Yes, of course; I under-stand. I don't defend poor Stanislas, though hehas always called me his best friend. He doesnot defend himself—he casts himself at herfeet: in my person." She tapped her emaciatedbosom. "I have his letter here."

"A letter?—Has Madame Olenska seen it?"Archer stammered, his brain whirling with theshock of the announcement.

The Marchioness Manson shook her headsoftly. "Time—time; I must have time. I knowmy Ellen—haughty, intractable; shall I say, justa shade unforgiving?"

"But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; togo back into that hell—"

"Ah, yes," the Marchioness acquiesced. "So shedescribes it—my sensitive child! But on thematerial side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop toconsider such things; do you know what she isgiving up? Those roses there on the sofa—acreslike them, under glass and in the open, in hismatchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels—historic pearls: the Sobieski emeralds—sables,—but she cares nothing for all these! Artand beauty, those she does care for, she livesfor, as I always have; and those also sur-rounded her. Pictures, priceless furniture, mu-sic, brilliant conversation—ah, that, my dearyoung man, if you'll excuse me, is what you'veno conception of here! And she had it all; andthe homage of the greatest. She tells me she isnot thought handsome in New York—goodheavens! Her portrait has been painted ninetimes; the greatest artists in Europe have

begged for the privilege. Are these things noth-ing? And the remorse of an adoring husband?"

As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climaxher face assumed an expression of ecstatic ret-rospection which would have moved Archer'smirth had he not been numb with amazement.

He would have laughed if any one had foretoldto him that his first sight of poor Medora Man-son would have been in the guise of a messen-ger of Satan; but he was in no mood for laugh-ing now, and she seemed to him to comestraight out of the hell from which Ellen Olen-ska had just escaped.

"She knows nothing yet—of all this?" he askedabruptly.

Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips."Nothing directly—but does she suspect? Whocan tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have beenwaiting to see you. From the moment I heard of

the firm stand you had taken, and of your in-fluence over her, I hoped it might be possible tocount on your support—to convince you ..."

"That she ought to go back? I would rather seeher dead!" cried the young man violently.

"Ah," the Marchioness murmured, withoutvisible resentment. For a while she sat in herarm-chair, opening and shutting the absurdivory fan between her mittened fingers; butsuddenly she lifted her head and listened.

"Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper;and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa:"Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr.Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... andmy niece is still a wife..."

XVIII.

"What are you two plotting together, aunt Me-dora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came intothe room.

She was dressed as if for a ball. Everythingabout her shimmered and glimmered softly, asif her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like apretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals.

"We were saying, my dear, that here was some-thing beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs.Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointingarchly to the flowers.

Madame Olenska stopped short and looked atthe bouquet. Her colour did not change, but asort of white radiance of anger ran over her likesummer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in ashrill voice that the young man had neverheard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a

bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight ofall nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not agirl engaged to be married. But some peopleare always ridiculous."

She turned back to the door, opened it, andcalled out: "Nastasia!"

The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly ap-peared, and Archer heard Madame Olenskasay, in an Italian that she seemed to pronouncewith intentional deliberateness in order that hemight follow it: "Here—throw this into thedustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared pro-testingly: "But no—it's not the fault of the poorflowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the housethree doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, thedark gentleman who dined here. His wife isill—they may give her pleasure ... The boy isout, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself;here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want thething out of the house immediately! And, asyou live, don't say they come from me!"

She flung her velvet opera cloak over themaid's shoulders and turned back into thedrawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Herbosom was rising high under its lace, and for amoment Archer thought she was about to cry;but she burst into a laugh instead, and lookingfrom the Marchioness to Archer, askedabruptly: "And you two—have you madefriends!"

"It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he haswaited patiently while you were dressing."

"Yes—I gave you time enough: my hair would-n't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her handto the heaped-up curls of her chignon. "But thatreminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'llbe late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will youput my aunt in the carriage?"

She followed the Marchioness into the hall, sawher fitted into a miscellaneous heap of over-shoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the

doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back forme at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, foundher standing by the mantelpiece, examiningherself in the mirror. It was not usual, in NewYork society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on anerrand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; andArcher, through all his deeper feelings, tastedthe pleasurable excitement of being in a worldwhere action followed on emotion with suchOlympian speed.

Madame Olenska did not move when he cameup behind her, and for a second their eyes metin the mirror; then she turned, threw herselfinto her sofa-corner, and sighed out: "There'stime for a cigarette."

He handed her the box and lit a spill for her;and as the flame flashed up into her face sheglanced at him with laughing eyes and said:"What do you think of me in a temper?"

Archer paused a moment; then he answeredwith sudden resolution: "It makes me under-stand what your aunt has been saying aboutyou."

"I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?"

"She said you were used to all kinds of things—splendours and amusements and excitements—that we could never hope to give you here."

Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circleof smoke about her lips.

"Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has madeup to her for so many things!"

Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk."Is your aunt's romanticism always consistentwith accuracy?"

"You mean: does she speak the truth?" Herniece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almosteverything she says, there's something true and

something untrue. But why do you ask? Whathas she been telling you?"

He looked away into the fire, and then back ather shining presence. His heart tightened withthe thought that this was their last evening bythat fireside, and that in a moment the carriagewould come to carry her away.

"She says—she pretends that Count Olenski hasasked her to persuade you to go back to him."

Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat mo-tionless, holding her cigarette in her half-liftedhand. The expression of her face had notchanged; and Archer remembered that he hadbefore noticed her apparent incapacity for sur-prise.

"You knew, then?" he broke out.

She was silent for so long that the ash droppedfrom her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor.

"She has hinted about a letter: poor darling!Medora's hints—"

"Is it at your husband's request that she hasarrived here suddenly?"

Madame Olenska seemed to consider this ques-tion also. "There again: one can't tell. She toldme she had had a 'spiritual summons,' what-ever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she'sgoing to marry Dr. Carver ... poor Medora,there's always some one she wants to marry.But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired ofher! I think she was with them as a sort of paidcompanion. Really, I don't know why shecame."

"But you do believe she has a letter from yourhusband?"

Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; thenshe said: "After all, it was to be expected."

The young man rose and went to lean againstthe fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessedhim, and he was tongue-tied by the sense thattheir minutes were numbered, and that at anymoment he might hear the wheels of the re-turning carriage.

"You know that your aunt believes you will goback?"

Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. Adeep blush rose to her face and spread over herneck and shoulders. She blushed seldom andpainfully, as if it hurt her like a burn.

"Many cruel things have been believed of me,"she said.

"Oh, Ellen—forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!"

She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous;you have your own troubles. I know you thinkthe Wellands are unreasonable about your mar-

riage, and of course I agree with you. In Europepeople don't understand our long Americanengagements; I suppose they are not as calm aswe are." She pronounced the "we" with a faintemphasis that gave it an ironic sound.

Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take itup. After all, she had perhaps purposely de-flected the conversation from her own affairs,and after the pain his last words had evidentlycaused her he felt that all he could do was tofollow her lead. But the sense of the waninghour made him desperate: he could not bearthe thought that a barrier of words should dropbetween them again.

"Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to askMay to marry me after Easter. There's no rea-son why we shouldn't be married then."

"And May adores you—and yet you couldn'tconvince her? I thought her too intelligent to bethe slave of such absurd superstitions."

"She IS too intelligent—she's not their slave."

Madame Olenska looked at him. "Well, then—Idon't understand."

Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush."We had a frank talk—almost the first. Shethinks my impatience a bad sign."

"Merciful heavens—a bad sign?"

"She thinks it means that I can't trust myself togo on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I wantto marry her at once to get away from some onethat I—care for more."

Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "Butif she thinks that—why isn't she in a hurrytoo?"

"Because she's not like that: she's so much no-bler. She insists all the more on the long en-gagement, to give me time—"

"Time to give her up for the other woman?"

"If I want to."

Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire andgazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quietstreet Archer heard the approaching trot of herhorses.

"That IS noble," she said, with a slight break inher voice.

"Yes. But it's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? Because you don't care for anyone else?"

"Because I don't mean to marry any one else."

"Ah." There was another long interval. Atlength she looked up at him and asked: "Thisother woman—does she love you?"

"Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the per-son that May was thinking of is—was never—"

"Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?"

"There's your carriage," said Archer.

She half-rose and looked about her with absenteyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa besideher and she picked them up mechanically.

"Yes; I suppose I must be going."

"You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?"

"Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go whereI am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why notcome with me?"

Archer felt that at any cost he must keep herbeside him, must make her give him the rest ofher evening. Ignoring her question, he contin-ued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyesfixed on the hand in which she held her gloves

and fan, as if watching to see if he had thepower to make her drop them.

"May guessed the truth," he said. "There is an-other woman—but not the one she thinks."

Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did notmove. After a moment he sat down beside her,and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, sothat the gloves and fan fell on the sofa betweenthem.

She started up, and freeing herself from himmoved away to the other side of the hearth."Ah, don't make love to me! Too many peoplehave done that," she said, frowning.

Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it wasthe bitterest rebuke she could have given him."I have never made love to you," he said, "and Inever shall. But you are the woman I wouldhave married if it had been possible for eitherof us."

"Possible for either of us?" She looked at himwith unfeigned astonishment. "And you saythat—when it's you who've made it impossi-ble?"

He stared at her, groping in a blacknessthrough which a single arrow of light tore itsblinding way.

"I'VE made it impossible—?"

"You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip tremblinglike a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it youwho made me give up divorcing—give it upbecause you showed me how selfish andwicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's selfto preserve the dignity of marriage ... and tospare one's family the publicity, the scandal?And because my family was going to be yourfamily—for May's sake and for yours—I didwhat you told me, what you proved to me thatI ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden

laugh, "I've made no secret of having done itfor you!"

She sank down on the sofa again, crouchingamong the festive ripples of her dress like astricken masquerader; and the young manstood by the fireplace and continued to gaze ather without moving.

"Good God," he groaned. "When I thought—"

"You thought?"

"Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"

Still looking at her, he saw the same burningflush creep up her neck to her face. She sat up-right, facing him with a rigid dignity.

"I do ask you."

"Well, then: there were things in that letter youasked me to read—"

"My husband's letter?"

"Yes."

"I had nothing to fear from that letter: abso-lutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notori-ety, scandal, on the family—on you and May."

"Good God," he groaned again, bowing his facein his hands.

The silence that followed lay on them with theweight of things final and irrevocable. Itseemed to Archer to be crushing him down likehis own grave-stone; in all the wide future hesaw nothing that would ever lift that load fromhis heart. He did not move from his place, orraise his head from his hands; his hidden eye-balls went on staring into utter darkness.

"At least I loved you—" he brought out.

On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still

crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like achild's. He started up and came to her side.

"Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying?Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm stillfree, and you're going to be." He had her in hisarms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, andall their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghostsat sunrise. The one thing that astonished himnow was that he should have stood for fiveminutes arguing with her across the width ofthe room, when just touching her made every-thing so simple.

She gave him back all his kiss, but after a mo-ment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and sheput him aside and stood up.

"Ah, my poor Newland—I suppose this had tobe. But it doesn't in the least alter things," shesaid, looking down at him in her turn from thehearth.

"It alters the whole of life for me."

"No, no—it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged toMay Welland; and I'm married."

He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Non-sense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We'veno right to lie to other people or to ourselves.We won't talk of your marriage; but do you seeme marrying May after this?"

She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on themantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glassbehind her. One of the locks of her chignon hadbecome loosened and hung on her neck; shelooked haggard and almost old.

"I don't see you," she said at length, "puttingthat question to May. Do you?"

He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to doanything else."

"You say that because it's the easiest thing tosay at this moment—not because it's true. Inreality it's too late to do anything but whatwe'd both decided on."

"Ah, I don't understand you!"

She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her faceinstead of smoothing it. "You don't understandbecause you haven't yet guessed how you'vechanged things for me: oh, from the first—longbefore I knew all you'd done."

"All I'd done?"

"Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first thatpeople here were shy of me—that they thoughtI was a dreadful sort of person. It seems theyhad even refused to meet me at dinner. I foundthat out afterward; and how you'd made yourmother go with you to the van der Luydens';and how you'd insisted on announcing yourengagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might

have two families to stand by me instead ofone—"

At that he broke into a laugh.

"Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unob-servant I was! I knew nothing of all this tillGranny blurted it out one day. New York sim-ply meant peace and freedom to me: it wascoming home. And I was so happy at beingamong my own people that every one I metseemed kind and good, and glad to see me. Butfrom the very beginning," she continued, "I feltthere was no one as kind as you; no one whogave me reasons that I understood for doingwhat at first seemed so hard and—unnecessary.The very good people didn't convince me; I feltthey'd never been tempted. But you knew; youunderstood; you had felt the world outsidetugging at one with all its golden hands—andyet you hated the things it asks of one; youhated happiness bought by disloyalty and cru-elty and indifference. That was what I'd never

known before—and it's better than anythingI've known."

She spoke in a low even voice, without tears orvisible agitation; and each word, as it droppedfrom her, fell into his breast like burning lead.He sat bowed over, his head between hishands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip ofthe satin shoe that showed under her dress.Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe.

She bent over him, laying her hands on hisshoulders, and looking at him with eyes sodeep that he remained motionless under hergaze.

"Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" shecried. "I can't go back now to that other way ofthinking. I can't love you unless I give you up."

His arms were yearning up to her; but shedrew away, and they remained facing eachother, divided by the distance that her words

had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflo-wed.

"And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?"

As the words sprang out he was prepared foran answering flare of anger; and he would havewelcomed it as fuel for his own. But MadameOlenska only grew a shade paler, and stoodwith her arms hanging down before her, andher head slightly bent, as her way was whenshe pondered a question.

"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's;why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered.

She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go outthis evening; tell the carriage to go and fetchthe Signora Marchesa," she said when the maidcame.

After the door had closed again Archer contin-ued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this

sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonelyI've no right to keep you from your friends."

She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "Ishan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WASafraid. But the emptiness and the darkness aregone; when I turn back into myself now I'm likea child going at night into a room where there'salways a light."

Her tone and her look still enveloped her in asoft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned outagain: "I don't understand you!"

"Yet you understand May!"

He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyeson her. "May is ready to give me up."

"What! Three days after you've entreated heron your knees to hasten your marriage?"

"She's refused; that gives me the right—"

"Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word thatis," she said.

He turned away with a sense of utter weari-ness. He felt as though he had been strugglingfor hours up the face of a steep precipice, andnow, just as he had fought his way to the top,his hold had given way and he was pitchingdown headlong into darkness.

If he could have got her in his arms again hemight have swept away her arguments; but shestill held him at a distance by something inscru-tably aloof in her look and attitude, and by hisown awed sense of her sincerity. At length hebegan to plead again.

"If we do this now it will be worse afterward—worse for every one—"

"No—no—no!" she almost screamed, as if hefrightened her.

At that moment the bell sent a long tinklethrough the house. They had heard no carriagestopping at the door, and they stood mo-tionless, looking at each other with startledeyes.

Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, theouter door opened, and a moment later shecame in carrying a telegram which she handedto the Countess Olenska.

"The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nas-tasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought itwas her signor marito who had sent them, andshe cried a little and said it was a folly."

Her mistress smiled and took the yellow enve-lope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp;then, when the door had closed again, shehanded the telegram to Archer.

It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressedto the Countess Olenska. In it he read:

"Granny's telegram successful. Papa andMamma agree marriage after Easter. Am tele-graphing Newland. Am too happy for wordsand love you dearly. Your grateful May."

Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked hisown front-door, he found a similar envelope onthe hall-table on top of his pile of notes andletters. The message inside the envelope wasalso from May Welland, and ran as follows:"Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easterat twelve Grace Church eight bridesmaidsplease see Rector so happy love May."

Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if thegesture could annihilate the news it contained.Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary andturned over the pages with trembling fingers;but he did not find what he wanted, andcramming the telegram into his pocket hemounted the stairs.

A light was shining through the door of thelittle hall-room which served Janey as a dress-ing-room and boudoir, and her brother rappedimpatiently on the panel. The door opened, andhis sister stood before him in her immemorialpurple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "onpins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive.

"Newland! I hope there's no bad news in thattelegram? I waited on purpose, in case—" (Noitem of his correspondence was safe fromJaney.)

He took no notice of her question. "Look here—what day is Easter this year?"

She looked shocked at such unchristian igno-rance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, thefirst week in April. Why?"

"The first week?" He turned again to the pagesof his diary, calculating rapidly under his

breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threwback his head with a long laugh.

"For mercy's sake what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going tobe married in a month."

Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to herpurple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how won-derful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do youkeep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wakeMamma."

Book II

XIX.

The day was fresh, with a lively spring windfull of dust. All the old ladies in both familieshad got out their faded sables and yellowingermines, and the smell of camphor from thefront pews almost smothered the faint springscent of the lilies banking the altar.

Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton,had come out of the vestry and placed himselfwith his best man on the chancel step of GraceChurch.

The signal meant that the brougham bearingthe bride and her father was in sight; but therewas sure to be a considerable interval of ad-justment and consultation in the lobby, wherethe bridesmaids were already hovering like acluster of Easter blossoms. During this un-avoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, inproof of his eagerness, was expected to expose

himself alone to the gaze of the assembledcompany; and Archer had gone through thisformality as resignedly as through all the oth-ers which made of a nineteenth century NewYork wedding a rite that seemed to belong tothe dawn of history. Everything was equallyeasy—or equally painful, as one chose to putit—in the path he was committed to tread, andhe had obeyed the flurried injunctions of hisbest man as piously as other bridegrooms hadobeyed his own, in the days when he hadguided them through the same labyrinth.

So far he was reasonably sure of having ful-filled all his obligations. The bridesmaids' eightbouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valleyhad been sent in due time, as well as the goldand sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushersand the best man's cat's-eye scarf-pin; Archerhad sat up half the night trying to vary thewording of his thanks for the last batch of pre-sents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the

fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safelyin the pocket of his best man; his own luggagewas already at Mrs. Manson Mingott's, wherethe wedding-breakfast was to take place, andso were the travelling clothes into which hewas to change; and a private compartment hadbeen engaged in the train that was to carry theyoung couple to their unknown destination—concealment of the spot in which the bridalnight was to be spent being one of the mostsacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual.

"Got the ring all right?" whispered young vander Luyden Newland, who was inexperiencedin the duties of a best man, and awed by theweight of his responsibility.

Archer made the gesture which he had seen somany bridegrooms make: with his unglovedright hand he felt in the pocket of his dark greywaistcoat, and assured himself that the littlegold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May,April —-, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming

his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-greygloves with black stitchings grasped in his lefthand, he stood looking at the door of thechurch.

Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompouslythrough the imitation stone vaulting, carryingon its waves the faded drift of the many wed-dings at which, with cheerful indifference, hehad stood on the same chancel step watchingother brides float up the nave toward otherbridegrooms.

"How like a first night at the Opera!" hethought, recognising all the same faces in thesame boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, whenthe Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merrywould be there with the same towering ostrichfeathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort withthe same diamond earrings and the samesmile—and whether suitable proscenium seatswere already prepared for them in anotherworld.

After that there was still time to review, one byone, the familiar countenances in the first rows;the women's sharp with curiosity and excite-ment, the men's sulky with the obligation ofhaving to put on their frock-coats before lunch-eon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast.

"Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," thebridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying."But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on itsbeing cooked by his own chef, so it ought to begood if one can only get at it." And he couldimagine Sillerton Jackson adding with author-ity: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's tobe served at small tables, in the new Englishfashion."

Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had enteredthe church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden'sarm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly

veil, her hands in her grandmother's erminemuff.

"Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister,"even by screwing her head around she can seeonly the people in the few front pews; andthey're mostly dowdy Newlands andDagonets."

On the hither side of the white ribbon dividingoff the seats reserved for the families he sawBeaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising thewomen with his arrogant stare. Beside him sathis wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; andon the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lef-ferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mountguard over the invisible deity of "Good Form"who presided at the ceremony.

Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts'skeen eyes would discover in the ritual of hisdivinity; then he suddenly recalled that he toohad once thought such questions important.

The things that had filled his days seemed nowlike a nursery parody of life, or like the wran-gles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysicalterms that nobody had ever understood. Astormy discussion as to whether the weddingpresents should be "shown" had darkened thelast hours before the wedding; and it seemedinconceivable to Archer that grown-up peopleshould work themselves into a state of agitationover such trifles, and that the matter shouldhave been decided (in the negative) by Mrs.Welland's saying, with indignant tears: "Ishould as soon turn the reporters loose in myhouse." Yet there was a time when Archer hadhad definite and rather aggressive opinions onall such problems, and when everything con-cerning the manners and customs of his littletribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance.

"And all the while, I suppose," he thought, "realpeople were living somewhere, and real thingshappening to them ..."

"THERE THEY COME!" breathed the best manexcitedly; but the bridegroom knew better.

The cautious opening of the door of the churchmeant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stablekeeper (gowned in black in his intermittentcharacter of sexton) was taking a preliminarysurvey of the scene before marshalling hisforces. The door was softly shut again; thenafter another interval it swung majesticallyopen, and a murmur ran through the church:"The family!"

Mrs. Welland came first, on the arm of her eld-est son. Her large pink face was appropriatelysolemn, and her plum-coloured satin with paleblue side-panels, and blue ostrich plumes in asmall satin bonnet, met with general approval;but before she had settled herself with a stately

rustle in the pew opposite Mrs. Archer's thespectators were craning their necks to see whowas coming after her. Wild rumours had beenabroad the day before to the effect that Mrs.Manson Mingott, in spite of her physical dis-abilities, had resolved on being present at theceremony; and the idea was so much in keep-ing with her sporting character that bets ranhigh at the clubs as to her being able to walk upthe nave and squeeze into a seat. It was knownthat she had insisted on sending her own car-penter to look into the possibility of takingdown the end panel of the front pew, and tomeasure the space between the seat and thefront; but the result had been discouraging, andfor one anxious day her family had watchedher dallying with the plan of being wheeled upthe nave in her enormous Bath chair and sittingenthroned in it at the foot of the chancel.

The idea of this monstrous exposure of her per-son was so painful to her relations that they

could have covered with gold the ingeniousperson who suddenly discovered that the chairwas too wide to pass between the iron uprightsof the awning which extended from the churchdoor to the curbstone. The idea of doing awaywith this awning, and revealing the bride to themob of dressmakers and newspaper reporterswho stood outside fighting to get near thejoints of the canvas, exceeded even old Cath-erine's courage, though for a moment she hadweighed the possibility. "Why, they might takea photograph of my child AND PUT IT IN THEPAPERS!" Mrs. Welland exclaimed when hermother's last plan was hinted to her; and fromthis unthinkable indecency the clan recoiledwith a collective shudder. The ancestress hadhad to give in; but her concession was boughtonly by the promise that the wedding-breakfastshould take place under her roof, though (asthe Washington Square connection said) withthe Wellands' house in easy reach it was hard

to have to make a special price with Brown todrive one to the other end of nowhere.

Though all these transactions had been widelyreported by the Jacksons a sporting minoritystill clung to the belief that old Catherinewould appear in church, and there was a dis-tinct lowering of the temperature when she wasfound to have been replaced by her daughter-in-law. Mrs. Lovell Mingott had the high colourand glassy stare induced in ladies of her ageand habit by the effort of getting into a newdress; but once the disappointment occasionedby her mother-in-law's non-appearance hadsubsided, it was agreed that her black Chantillyover lilac satin, with a bonnet of Parma violets,formed the happiest contrast to Mrs. Welland'sblue and plum-colour. Far different was theimpression produced by the gaunt and mincinglady who followed on Mr. Mingott's arm, in awild dishevelment of stripes and fringes andfloating scarves; and as this last apparition

glided into view Archer's heart contracted andstopped beating.

He had taken it for granted that the Marchion-ess Manson was still in Washington, where shehad gone some four weeks previously with herniece, Madame Olenska. It was generally un-derstood that their abrupt departure was due toMadame Olenska's desire to remove her auntfrom the baleful eloquence of Dr. AgathonCarver, who had nearly succeeded in enlistingher as a recruit for the Valley of Love; and inthe circumstances no one had expected either ofthe ladies to return for the wedding. For a mo-ment Archer stood with his eyes fixed on Me-dora's fantastic figure, straining to see whocame behind her; but the little procession wasat an end, for all the lesser members of the fam-ily had taken their seats, and the eight tall ush-ers, gathering themselves together like birds orinsects preparing for some migratory manoeu-

vre, were already slipping through the sidedoors into the lobby.

"Newland—I say: SHE'S HERE!" the best manwhispered.

Archer roused himself with a start.

A long time had apparently passed since hisheart had stopped beating, for the white androsy procession was in fact half way up thenave, the Bishop, the Rector and two white-winged assistants were hovering about theflower-banked altar, and the first chords of theSpohr symphony were strewing their flower-like notes before the bride.

Archer opened his eyes (but could they reallyhave been shut, as he imagined?), and felt hisheart beginning to resume its usual task. Themusic, the scent of the lilies on the altar, thevision of the cloud of tulle and orange-blossoms floating nearer and nearer, the sight

of Mrs. Archer's face suddenly convulsed withhappy sobs, the low benedictory murmur of theRector's voice, the ordered evolutions of theeight pink bridesmaids and the eight blackushers: all these sights, sounds and sensations,so familiar in themselves, so unutterablystrange and meaningless in his new relation tothem, were confusedly mingled in his brain.

"My God," he thought, "HAVE I got thering?"—and once more he went through thebridegroom's convulsive gesture.

Then, in a moment, May was beside him, suchradiance streaming from her that it sent a faintwarmth through his numbness, and hestraightened himself and smiled into her eyes.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered togetherhere," the Rector began ...

The ring was on her hand, the Bishop's bene-diction had been given, the bridesmaids were

a-poise to resume their place in the procession,and the organ was showing preliminary symp-toms of breaking out into the MendelssohnMarch, without which no newly-wedded cou-ple had ever emerged upon New York.

"Your arm—I SAY, GIVE HER YOUR ARM!"young Newland nervously hissed; and oncemore Archer became aware of having beenadrift far off in the unknown. What was it thathad sent him there, he wondered? Perhaps theglimpse, among the anonymous spectators inthe transept, of a dark coil of hair under a hatwhich, a moment later, revealed itself as be-longing to an unknown lady with a long nose,so laughably unlike the person whose imageshe had evoked that he asked himself if he werebecoming subject to hallucinations.

And now he and his wife were pacing slowlydown the nave, carried forward on the lightMendelssohn ripples, the spring day beckoningto them through widely opened doors, and

Mrs. Welland's chestnuts, with big white fa-vours on their frontlets, curvetting and show-ing off at the far end of the canvas tunnel.

The footman, who had a still bigger white fa-vour on his lapel, wrapped May's white cloakabout her, and Archer jumped into thebrougham at her side. She turned to him with atriumphant smile and their hands clasped un-der her veil.

"Darling!" Archer said—and suddenly the sameblack abyss yawned before him and he felthimself sinking into it, deeper and deeper,while his voice rambled on smoothly andcheerfully: "Yes, of course I thought I'd lost thering; no wedding would be complete if thepoor devil of a bridegroom didn't go throughthat. But you DID keep me waiting, you know!I had time to think of every horror that mightpossibly happen."

She surprised him by turning, in full Fifth Ave-nue, and flinging her arms about his neck. "Butnone ever CAN happen now, can it, Newland,as long as we two are together?"

Every detail of the day had been so carefullythought out that the young couple, after thewedding-breakfast, had ample time to put ontheir travelling-clothes, descend the wide Min-gott stairs between laughing bridesmaids andweeping parents, and get into the broughamunder the traditional shower of rice and satinslippers; and there was still half an hour left inwhich to drive to the station, buy the last week-lies at the bookstall with the air of seasonedtravellers, and settle themselves in the reservedcompartment in which May's maid had alreadyplaced her dove-coloured travelling cloak andglaringly new dressing-bag from London.

The old du Lac aunts at Rhinebeck had puttheir house at the disposal of the bridal couple,

with a readiness inspired by the prospect ofspending a week in New York with Mrs.Archer; and Archer, glad to escape the usual"bridal suite" in a Philadelphia or Baltimorehotel, had accepted with an equal alacrity.

May was enchanted at the idea of going to thecountry, and childishly amused at the vain ef-forts of the eight bridesmaids to discover wheretheir mysterious retreat was situated. It wasthought "very English" to have a country-houselent to one, and the fact gave a last touch ofdistinction to what was generally conceded tobe the most brilliant wedding of the year; butwhere the house was no one was permitted toknow, except the parents of bride and groom,who, when taxed with the knowledge, pursedtheir lips and said mysteriously: "Ah, they did-n't tell us—" which was manifestly true, sincethere was no need to.

Once they were settled in their compartment,and the train, shaking off the endless wooden

suburbs, had pushed out into the pale land-scape of spring, talk became easier than Archerhad expected. May was still, in look and tone,the simple girl of yesterday, eager to comparenotes with him as to the incidents of the wed-ding, and discussing them as impartially as abridesmaid talking it all over with an usher. Atfirst Archer had fancied that this detachmentwas the disguise of an inward tremor; but herclear eyes revealed only the most tranquil un-awareness. She was alone for the first time withher husband; but her husband was only thecharming comrade of yesterday. There was noone whom she liked as much, no one whom shetrusted as completely, and the culminating"lark" of the whole delightful adventure of en-gagement and marriage was to be off with himalone on a journey, like a grownup person, likea "married woman," in fact.

It was wonderful that—as he had learned in theMission garden at St. Augustine—such depths

of feeling could coexist with such absence ofimagination. But he remembered how, eventhen, she had surprised him by dropping backto inexpressive girlishness as soon as her con-science had been eased of its burden; and hesaw that she would probably go through lifedealing to the best of her ability with each ex-perience as it came, but never anticipating anyby so much as a stolen glance.

Perhaps that faculty of unawareness was whatgave her eyes their transparency, and her facethe look of representing a type rather than aperson; as if she might have been chosen topose for a Civic Virtue or a Greek goddess. Theblood that ran so close to her fair skin mighthave been a preserving fluid rather than a rav-aging element; yet her look of indestructibleyouthfulness made her seem neither hard nordull, but only primitive and pure. In the thickof this meditation Archer suddenly felt himselflooking at her with the startled gaze of a

stranger, and plunged into a reminiscence ofthe wedding-breakfast and of Granny Mingott'simmense and triumphant pervasion of it.

May settled down to frank enjoyment of thesubject. "I was surprised, though—weren'tyou?—that aunt Medora came after all. Ellenwrote that they were neither of them wellenough to take the journey; I do wish it hadbeen she who had recovered! Did you see theexquisite old lace she sent me?"

He had known that the moment must comesooner or later, but he had somewhat imaginedthat by force of willing he might hold it at bay.

"Yes—I—no: yes, it was beautiful," he said,looking at her blindly, and wondering if,whenever he heard those two syllables, all hiscarefully built-up world would tumble abouthim like a house of cards.

"Aren't you tired? It will be good to have sometea when we arrive—I'm sure the aunts havegot everything beautifully ready," he rattled on,taking her hand in his; and her mind rushedaway instantly to the magnificent tea and coffeeservice of Baltimore silver which the Beaufortshad sent, and which "went" so perfectly withuncle Lovell Mingott's trays and side-dishes.

In the spring twilight the train stopped at theRhinebeck station, and they walked along theplatform to the waiting carriage.

"Ah, how awfully kind of the van der Luy-dens—they've sent their man over fromSkuytercliff to meet us," Archer exclaimed, as asedate person out of livery approached themand relieved the maid of her bags.

"I'm extremely sorry, sir," said this emissary,"that a little accident has occurred at the Missdu Lacs': a leak in the water-tank. It happenedyesterday, and Mr. van der Luyden, who heard

of it this morning, sent a housemaid up by theearly train to get the Patroon's house ready. Itwill be quite comfortable, I think you'll find, sir;and the Miss du Lacs have sent their cook over,so that it will be exactly the same as if you'dbeen at Rhinebeck."

Archer stared at the speaker so blankly that herepeated in still more apologetic accents: "It'llbe exactly the same, sir, I do assure you—" andMay's eager voice broke out, covering the em-barrassed silence: "The same as Rhinebeck? ThePatroon's house? But it will be a hundred thou-sand times better—won't it, Newland? It's toodear and kind of Mr. van der Luyden to havethought of it."

And as they drove off, with the maid beside thecoachman, and their shining bridal bags on theseat before them, she went on excitedly: "Onlyfancy, I've never been inside it—have you? Thevan der Luydens show it to so few people. Butthey opened it for Ellen, it seems, and she told

me what a darling little place it was: she saysit's the only house she's seen in America thatshe could imagine being perfectly happy in."

"Well—that's what we're going to be, isn't it?"cried her husband gaily; and she answeredwith her boyish smile: "Ah, it's just our luckbeginning—the wonderful luck we're alwaysgoing to have together!"

XX.

"Of course we must dine with Mrs. Carfry,dearest," Archer said; and his wife looked athim with an anxious frown across the monu-mental Britannia ware of their lodging housebreakfast-table.

In all the rainy desert of autumnal Londonthere were only two people whom the

Newland Archers knew; and these two theyhad sedulously avoided, in conformity with theold New York tradition that it was not "digni-fied" to force one's self on the notice of one'sacquaintances in foreign countries.

Mrs. Archer and Janey, in the course of theirvisits to Europe, had so unflinchingly lived upto this principle, and met the friendly advancesof their fellow-travellers with an air of suchimpenetrable reserve, that they had almostachieved the record of never having exchangeda word with a "foreigner" other than those em-ployed in hotels and railway-stations. Theirown compatriots—save those previouslyknown or properly accredited—they treatedwith an even more pronounced disdain; so that,unless they ran across a Chivers, a Dagonet or aMingott, their months abroad were spent in anunbroken tete-a-tete. But the utmost precau-tions are sometimes unavailing; and one nightat Botzen one of the two English ladies in the

room across the passage (whose names, dressand social situation were already intimatelyknown to Janey) had knocked on the door andasked if Mrs. Archer had a bottle of liniment.The other lady—the intruder's sister, Mrs. Car-fry—had been seized with a sudden attack ofbronchitis; and Mrs. Archer, who never trav-elled without a complete family pharmacy, wasfortunately able to produce the required rem-edy.

Mrs. Carfry was very ill, and as she and hersister Miss Harle were travelling alone theywere profoundly grateful to the Archer ladies,who supplied them with ingenious comfortsand whose efficient maid helped to nurse theinvalid back to health.

When the Archers left Botzen they had no ideaof ever seeing Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harleagain. Nothing, to Mrs. Archer's mind, wouldhave been more "undignified" than to forceone's self on the notice of a "foreigner" to whom

one had happened to render an accidental ser-vice. But Mrs. Carfry and her sister, to whomthis point of view was unknown, and whowould have found it utterly incomprehensible,felt themselves linked by an eternal gratitude tothe "delightful Americans" who had been sokind at Botzen. With touching fidelity theyseized every chance of meeting Mrs. Archerand Janey in the course of their continentaltravels, and displayed a supernatural acutenessin finding out when they were to pass throughLondon on their way to or from the States. Theintimacy became indissoluble, and Mrs. Archerand Janey, whenever they alighted at Brown'sHotel, found themselves awaited by two affec-tionate friends who, like themselves, cultivatedferns in Wardian cases, made macrame lace,read the memoirs of the Baroness Bunsen andhad views about the occupants of the leadingLondon pulpits. As Mrs. Archer said, it made"another thing of London" to know Mrs. Carfryand Miss Harle; and by the time that Newland

became engaged the tie between the familieswas so firmly established that it was thought"only right" to send a wedding invitation to thetwo English ladies, who sent, in return, a prettybouquet of pressed Alpine flowers under glass.And on the dock, when Newland and his wifesailed for England, Mrs. Archer's last word hadbeen: "You must take May to see Mrs. Carfry."

Newland and his wife had had no idea of obey-ing this injunction; but Mrs. Carfry, with herusual acuteness, had run them down and sentthem an invitation to dine; and it was over thisinvitation that May Archer was wrinkling herbrows across the tea and muffins.

"It's all very well for you, Newland; youKNOW them. But I shall feel so shy among a lotof people I've never met. And what shall Iwear?"

Newland leaned back in his chair and smiled ather. She looked handsomer and more Diana-

like than ever. The moist English air seemed tohave deepened the bloom of her cheeks andsoftened the slight hardness of her virginal fea-tures; or else it was simply the inner glow ofhappiness, shining through like a light underice.

"Wear, dearest? I thought a trunkful of thingshad come from Paris last week."

"Yes, of course. I meant to say that I shan'tknow WHICH to wear." She pouted a little."I've never dined out in London; and I don'twant to be ridiculous."

He tried to enter into her perplexity. "But don'tEnglishwomen dress just like everybody else inthe evening?"

"Newland! How can you ask such funny ques-tions? When they go to the theatre in old ball-dresses and bare heads."

"Well, perhaps they wear new ball-dresses athome; but at any rate Mrs. Carfry and MissHarle won't. They'll wear caps like mymother's—and shawls; very soft shawls."

"Yes; but how will the other women bedressed?"

"Not as well as you, dear," he rejoined, wonder-ing what had suddenly developed in herJaney's morbid interest in clothes.

She pushed back her chair with a sigh. "That'sdear of you, Newland; but it doesn't help memuch."

He had an inspiration. "Why not wear yourwedding-dress? That can't be wrong, can it?"

"Oh, dearest! If I only had it here! But it's goneto Paris to be made over for next winter, andWorth hasn't sent it back."

"Oh, well—" said Archer, getting up. "Lookhere—the fog's lifting. If we made a dash forthe National Gallery we might manage to catcha glimpse of the pictures."

The Newland Archers were on their way home,after a three months' wedding-tour which May,in writing to her girl friends, vaguely summa-rised as "blissful."

They had not gone to the Italian Lakes: on re-flection, Archer had not been able to picture hiswife in that particular setting. Her own inclina-tion (after a month with the Paris dressmakers)was for mountaineering in July and swimmingin August. This plan they punctually fulfilled,spending July at Interlaken and Grindelwald,and August at a little place called Etretat, onthe Normandy coast, which some one had rec-ommended as quaint and quiet. Once or twice,in the mountains, Archer had pointed south-ward and said: "There's Italy"; and May, her

feet in a gentian-bed, had smiled cheerfully,and replied: "It would be lovely to go there nextwinter, if only you didn't have to be in NewYork."

But in reality travelling interested her even lessthan he had expected. She regarded it (once herclothes were ordered) as merely an enlargedopportunity for walking, riding, swimming,and trying her hand at the fascinating newgame of lawn tennis; and when they finally gotback to London (where they were to spend afortnight while he ordered HIS clothes) she nolonger concealed the eagerness with which shelooked forward to sailing.

In London nothing interested her but the thea-tres and the shops; and she found the theatresless exciting than the Paris cafes chantantswhere, under the blossoming horse-chestnutsof the Champs Elysees, she had had the novelexperience of looking down from the restaurantterrace on an audience of "cocottes," and having

her husband interpret to her as much of thesongs as he thought suitable for bridal ears.

Archer had reverted to all his old inheritedideas about marriage. It was less trouble to con-form with the tradition and treat May exactlyas all his friends treated their wives than to tryto put into practice the theories with which hisuntrammelled bachelorhood had dallied. Therewas no use in trying to emancipate a wife whohad not the dimmest notion that she was notfree; and he had long since discovered thatMay's only use of the liberty she supposed her-self to possess would be to lay it on the altar ofher wifely adoration. Her innate dignity wouldalways keep her from making the gift abjectly;and a day might even come (as it once had)when she would find strength to take it alto-gether back if she thought she were doing it forhis own good. But with a conception of mar-riage so uncomplicated and incurious as herssuch a crisis could be brought about only by

something visibly outrageous in his own con-duct; and the fineness of her feeling for himmade that unthinkable. Whatever happened, heknew, she would always be loyal, gallant andunresentful; and that pledged him to the prac-tice of the same virtues.

All this tended to draw him back into his oldhabits of mind. If her simplicity had been thesimplicity of pettiness he would have chafedand rebelled; but since the lines of her charac-ter, though so few, were on the same finemould as her face, she became the tutelary di-vinity of all his old traditions and reverences.

Such qualities were scarcely of the kind to enli-ven foreign travel, though they made her soeasy and pleasant a companion; but he saw atonce how they would fall into place in theirproper setting. He had no fear of being op-pressed by them, for his artistic and intellectuallife would go on, as it always had, outside thedomestic circle; and within it there would be

nothing small and stifling—coming back to hiswife would never be like entering a stuffy roomafter a tramp in the open. And when they hadchildren the vacant corners in both their liveswould be filled.

All these things went through his mind duringtheir long slow drive from Mayfair to SouthKensington, where Mrs. Carfry and her sisterlived. Archer too would have preferred to es-cape their friends' hospitality: in conformitywith the family tradition he had always trav-elled as a sight-seer and looker-on, affecting ahaughty unconsciousness of the presence of hisfellow-beings. Once only, just after Harvard, hehad spent a few gay weeks at Florence with aband of queer Europeanised Americans, danc-ing all night with titled ladies in palaces, andgambling half the day with the rakes and dan-dies of the fashionable club; but it had allseemed to him, though the greatest fun in theworld, as unreal as a carnival. These queer

cosmopolitan women, deep in complicatedlove-affairs which they appeared to feel theneed of retailing to every one they met, and themagnificent young officers and elderly dyedwits who were the subjects or the recipients oftheir confidences, were too different from thepeople Archer had grown up among, too muchlike expensive and rather malodorous hot-house exotics, to detain his imagination long.To introduce his wife into such a society wasout of the question; and in the course of histravels no other had shown any marked eager-ness for his company.

Not long after their arrival in London he hadrun across the Duke of St. Austrey, and theDuke, instantly and cordially recognising him,had said: "Look me up, won't you?"—but noproper-spirited American would have consid-ered that a suggestion to be acted on, and themeeting was without a sequel. They had evenmanaged to avoid May's English aunt, the

banker's wife, who was still in Yorkshire; infact, they had purposely postponed going toLondon till the autumn in order that their arri-val during the season might not appear push-ing and snobbish to these unknown relatives.

"Probably there'll be nobody at Mrs. Carfry's—London's a desert at this season, and you'vemade yourself much too beautiful," Archer saidto May, who sat at his side in the hansom sospotlessly splendid in her sky-blue cloak edgedwith swansdown that it seemed wicked to ex-pose her to the London grime.

"I don't want them to think that we dress likesavages," she replied, with a scorn that Poca-hontas might have resented; and he was struckagain by the religious reverence of even themost unworldly American women for the so-cial advantages of dress.

"It's their armour," he thought, "their defenceagainst the unknown, and their defiance of it."

And he understood for the first time the ear-nestness with which May, who was incapableof tying a ribbon in her hair to charm him, hadgone through the solemn rite of selecting andordering her extensive wardrobe.

He had been right in expecting the party atMrs. Carfry's to be a small one. Besides theirhostess and her sister, they found, in the longchilly drawing-room, only another shawledlady, a genial Vicar who was her husband, asilent lad whom Mrs. Carfry named as hernephew, and a small dark gentleman withlively eyes whom she introduced as his tutor,pronouncing a French name as she did so.

Into this dimly-lit and dim-featured group MayArcher floated like a swan with the sunset onher: she seemed larger, fairer, more volumi-nously rustling than her husband had ever seenher; and he perceived that the rosiness and rus-tlingness were the tokens of an extreme andinfantile shyness.

"What on earth will they expect me to talkabout?" her helpless eyes implored him, at thevery moment that her dazzling apparition wascalling forth the same anxiety in their own bos-oms. But beauty, even when distrustful of itself,awakens confidence in the manly heart; and theVicar and the French-named tutor were soonmanifesting to May their desire to put her ather ease.

In spite of their best efforts, however, the din-ner was a languishing affair. Archer noticedthat his wife's way of showing herself at herease with foreigners was to become more un-compromisingly local in her references, so that,though her loveliness was an encouragement toadmiration, her conversation was a chill to rep-artee. The Vicar soon abandoned the struggle;but the tutor, who spoke the most fluent andaccomplished English, gallantly continued topour it out to her until the ladies, to the mani-

fest relief of all concerned, went up to thedrawing-room.

The Vicar, after a glass of port, was obliged tohurry away to a meeting, and the shy nephew,who appeared to be an invalid, was packed offto bed. But Archer and the tutor continued tosit over their wine, and suddenly Archer foundhimself talking as he had not done since his lastsymposium with Ned Winsett. The Carfrynephew, it turned out, had been threatenedwith consumption, and had had to leave Har-row for Switzerland, where he had spent twoyears in the milder air of Lake Leman. Being abookish youth, he had been entrusted to M.Riviere, who had brought him back to England,and was to remain with him till he went up toOxford the following spring; and M. Riviereadded with simplicity that he should then haveto look out for another job.

It seemed impossible, Archer thought, that heshould be long without one, so varied were his

interests and so many his gifts. He was a manof about thirty, with a thin ugly face (Maywould certainly have called him common-looking) to which the play of his ideas gave anintense expressiveness; but there was nothingfrivolous or cheap in his animation.

His father, who had died young, had filled asmall diplomatic post, and it had been intendedthat the son should follow the same career; butan insatiable taste for letters had thrown theyoung man into journalism, then into author-ship (apparently unsuccessful), and at length—after other experiments and vicissitudes whichhe spared his listener—into tutoring Englishyouths in Switzerland. Before that, however, hehad lived much in Paris, frequented the Gon-court grenier, been advised by Maupassant notto attempt to write (even that seemed to Archera dazzling honour!), and had often talked withMerimee in his mother's house. He had obvi-ously always been desperately poor and anx-

ious (having a mother and an unmarried sisterto provide for), and it was apparent that hisliterary ambitions had failed. His situation, infact, seemed, materially speaking, no more bril-liant than Ned Winsett's; but he had lived in aworld in which, as he said, no one who lovedideas need hunger mentally. As it was preciselyof that love that poor Winsett was starving todeath, Archer looked with a sort of vicariousenvy at this eager impecunious young manwho had fared so richly in his poverty.

"You see, Monsieur, it's worth everything, isn'tit, to keep one's intellectual liberty, not to en-slave one's powers of appreciation, one's criticalindependence? It was because of that that Iabandoned journalism, and took to so muchduller work: tutoring and private secretaryship.There is a good deal of drudgery, of course; butone preserves one's moral freedom, what wecall in French one's quant a soi. And when onehears good talk one can join in it without com-

promising any opinions but one's own; or onecan listen, and answer it inwardly. Ah, goodconversation—there's nothing like it, is there?The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.And so I have never regretted giving up eitherdiplomacy or journalism—two different formsof the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivideyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette."Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look lifein the face: that's worth living in a garret for,isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough topay for the garret; and I confess that to growold as a private tutor—or a 'private' anything—is almost as chilling to the imagination as a sec-ond secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes Ifeel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge.Do you suppose, for instance, there would beany opening for me in America—in NewYork?"

Archer looked at him with startled eyes. NewYork, for a young man who had frequented the

Goncourts and Flaubert, and who thought thelife of ideas the only one worth living! He con-tinued to stare at M. Riviere perplexedly, won-dering how to tell him that his very superior-ities and advantages would be the surest hin-drance to success.

"New York—New York—but must it be espe-cially New York?" he stammered, utterly un-able to imagine what lucrative opening his na-tive city could offer to a young man to whomgood conversation appeared to be the only ne-cessity.

A sudden flush rose under M. Riviere's sallowskin. "I—I thought it your metropolis: is not theintellectual life more active there?" he rejoined;then, as if fearing to give his hearer the impres-sion of having asked a favour, he went on hast-ily: "One throws out random suggestions—more to one's self than to others. In reality, I seeno immediate prospect—" and rising from hisseat he added, without a trace of constraint:

"But Mrs. Carfry will think that I ought to betaking you upstairs."

During the homeward drive Archer pondereddeeply on this episode. His hour with M.Riviere had put new air into his lungs, and hisfirst impulse had been to invite him to dine thenext day; but he was beginning to understandwhy married men did not always immediatelyyield to their first impulses.

"That young tutor is an interesting fellow: wehad some awfully good talk after dinner aboutbooks and things," he threw out tentatively inthe hansom.

May roused herself from one of the dreamysilences into which he had read so many mean-ings before six months of marriage had givenhim the key to them.

"The little Frenchman? Wasn't he dreadfullycommon?" she questioned coldly; and he

guessed that she nursed a secret disappoint-ment at having been invited out in London tomeet a clergyman and a French tutor. The dis-appointment was not occasioned by the senti-ment ordinarily defined as snobbishness, butby old New York's sense of what was due to itwhen it risked its dignity in foreign lands. IfMay's parents had entertained the Carfrys inFifth Avenue they would have offered themsomething more substantial than a parson anda schoolmaster.

But Archer was on edge, and took her up.

"Common—common WHERE?" he queried;and she returned with unusual readiness:"Why, I should say anywhere but in his school-room. Those people are always awkward insociety. But then," she added disarmingly, "Isuppose I shouldn't have known if he wasclever."

Archer disliked her use of the word "clever"almost as much as her use of the word "com-mon"; but he was beginning to fear his ten-dency to dwell on the things he disliked in her.After all, her point of view had always been thesame. It was that of all the people he hadgrown up among, and he had always regardedit as necessary but negligible. Until a fewmonths ago he had never known a "nice"woman who looked at life differently; and if aman married it must necessarily be among thenice.

"Ah—then I won't ask him to dine!" he con-cluded with a laugh; and May echoed, bewil-dered: "Goodness—ask the Carfrys' tutor?"

"Well, not on the same day with the Carfrys, ifyou prefer I shouldn't. But I did rather wantanother talk with him. He's looking for a job inNew York."

Her surprise increased with her indifference: healmost fancied that she suspected him of beingtainted with "foreignness."

"A job in New York? What sort of a job? Peopledon't have French tutors: what does he want todo?"

"Chiefly to enjoy good conversation, I under-stand," her husband retorted perversely; andshe broke into an appreciative laugh. "Oh,Newland, how funny! Isn't that FRENCH?"

On the whole, he was glad to have the mattersettled for him by her refusing to take seriouslyhis wish to invite M. Riviere. Another after-dinner talk would have made it difficult toavoid the question of New York; and the moreArcher considered it the less he was able to fitM. Riviere into any conceivable picture of NewYork as he knew it.

He perceived with a flash of chilling insightthat in future many problems would be thusnegatively solved for him; but as he paid thehansom and followed his wife's long train intothe house he took refuge in the comfortingplatitude that the first six months were alwaysthe most difficult in marriage. "After that Isuppose we shall have pretty nearly finishedrubbing off each other's angles," he reflected;but the worst of it was that May's pressure wasalready bearing on the very angles whosesharpness he most wanted to keep.

XXI.

The small bright lawn stretched away smoothlyto the big bright sea.

The turf was hemmed with an edge of scarletgeranium and coleus, and cast-iron vases

painted in chocolate colour, standing at inter-vals along the winding path that led to the sea,looped their garlands of petunia and ivy gera-nium above the neatly raked gravel.

Half way between the edge of the cliff and thesquare wooden house (which was also choco-late-coloured, but with the tin roof of the ve-randah striped in yellow and brown to repre-sent an awning) two large targets had beenplaced against a background of shrubbery. Onthe other side of the lawn, facing the targets,was pitched a real tent, with benches and gar-den-seats about it. A number of ladies in sum-mer dresses and gentlemen in grey frock-coatsand tall hats stood on the lawn or sat upon thebenches; and every now and then a slender girlin starched muslin would step from the tent,bow in hand, and speed her shaft at one of thetargets, while the spectators interrupted theirtalk to watch the result.

Newland Archer, standing on the verandah ofthe house, looked curiously down upon thisscene. On each side of the shiny painted stepswas a large blue china flower-pot on a brightyellow china stand. A spiky green plant filledeach pot, and below the verandah ran a wideborder of blue hydrangeas edged with morered geraniums. Behind him, the French win-dows of the drawing-rooms through which hehad passed gave glimpses, between swayinglace curtains, of glassy parquet floors islandedwith chintz poufs, dwarf armchairs, and velvettables covered with trifles in silver.

The Newport Archery Club always held itsAugust meeting at the Beauforts'. The sport,which had hitherto known no rival but croquet,was beginning to be discarded in favour oflawn-tennis; but the latter game was still con-sidered too rough and inelegant for social occa-sions, and as an opportunity to show off pretty

dresses and graceful attitudes the bow and ar-row held their own.

Archer looked down with wonder at the famil-iar spectacle. It surprised him that life shouldbe going on in the old way when his own reac-tions to it had so completely changed. It wasNewport that had first brought home to himthe extent of the change. In New York, duringthe previous winter, after he and May had set-tled down in the new greenish-yellow housewith the bow-window and the Pompeian vesti-bule, he had dropped back with relief into theold routine of the office, and the renewal of thisdaily activity had served as a link with his for-mer self. Then there had been the pleasurableexcitement of choosing a showy grey stepperfor May's brougham (the Wellands had giventhe carriage), and the abiding occupation andinterest of arranging his new library, which, inspite of family doubts and disapprovals, hadbeen carried out as he had dreamed, with a

dark embossed paper, Eastlake book-cases and"sincere" arm-chairs and tables. At the Centuryhe had found Winsett again, and at the Knick-erbocker the fashionable young men of his ownset; and what with the hours dedicated to thelaw and those given to dining out or entertain-ing friends at home, with an occasional eveningat the Opera or the play, the life he was livinghad still seemed a fairly real and inevitable sortof business.

But Newport represented the escape from dutyinto an atmosphere of unmitigated holiday-making. Archer had tried to persuade May tospend the summer on a remote island off thecoast of Maine (called, appropriately enough,Mount Desert), where a few hardy Bostoniansand Philadelphians were camping in "native"cottages, and whence came reports of enchant-ing scenery and a wild, almost trapper-like ex-istence amid woods and waters.

But the Wellands always went to Newport,where they owned one of the square boxes onthe cliffs, and their son-in-law could adduce nogood reason why he and May should not jointhem there. As Mrs. Welland rather tartlypointed out, it was hardly worth while for Mayto have worn herself out trying on summerclothes in Paris if she was not to be allowed towear them; and this argument was of a kind towhich Archer had as yet found no answer.

May herself could not understand his obscurereluctance to fall in with so reasonable andpleasant a way of spending the summer. Shereminded him that he had always liked New-port in his bachelor days, and as this was in-disputable he could only profess that he wassure he was going to like it better than evernow that they were to be there together. But ashe stood on the Beaufort verandah and lookedout on the brightly peopled lawn it came home

to him with a shiver that he was not going tolike it at all.

It was not May's fault, poor dear. If, now andthen, during their travels, they had fallenslightly out of step, harmony had been restoredby their return to the conditions she was usedto. He had always foreseen that she would notdisappoint him; and he had been right. He hadmarried (as most young men did) because hehad met a perfectly charming girl at the mo-ment when a series of rather aimless sentimen-tal adventures were ending in premature dis-gust; and she had represented peace, stability,comradeship, and the steadying sense of anunescapable duty.

He could not say that he had been mistaken inhis choice, for she had fulfilled all that he hadexpected. It was undoubtedly gratifying to bethe husband of one of the handsomest andmost popular young married women in NewYork, especially when she was also one of the

sweetest-tempered and most reasonable ofwives; and Archer had never been insensible tosuch advantages. As for the momentary mad-ness which had fallen upon him on the eve ofhis marriage, he had trained himself to regardit as the last of his discarded experiments. Theidea that he could ever, in his senses, havedreamed of marrying the Countess Olenskahad become almost unthinkable, and she re-mained in his memory simply as the mostplaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.

But all these abstractions and eliminationsmade of his mind a rather empty and echoingplace, and he supposed that was one of the rea-sons why the busy animated people on theBeaufort lawn shocked him as if they had beenchildren playing in a grave-yard.

He heard a murmur of skirts beside him, andthe Marchioness Manson fluttered out of thedrawing-room window. As usual, she was ex-traordinarily festooned and bedizened, with a

limp Leghorn hat anchored to her head bymany windings of faded gauze, and a littleblack velvet parasol on a carved ivory handleabsurdly balanced over her much larger hat-brim.

"My dear Newland, I had no idea that you andMay had arrived! You yourself came only yes-terday, you say? Ah, business—business—professional duties ... I understand. Many hus-bands, I know, find it impossible to join theirwives here except for the week-end." Shecocked her head on one side and languished athim through screwed-up eyes. "But marriage isone long sacrifice, as I used often to remind myEllen—"

Archer's heart stopped with the queer jerkwhich it had given once before, and whichseemed suddenly to slam a door between him-self and the outer world; but this break of con-tinuity must have been of the briefest, for he

presently heard Medora answering a questionhe had apparently found voice to put.

"No, I am not staying here, but with the Blen-kers, in their delicious solitude at Portsmouth.Beaufort was kind enough to send his famoustrotters for me this morning, so that I mighthave at least a glimpse of one of Regina's gar-den-parties; but this evening I go back to rurallife. The Blenkers, dear original beings, havehired a primitive old farm-house at Portsmouthwhere they gather about them representativepeople ..." She drooped slightly beneath herprotecting brim, and added with a faint blush:"This week Dr. Agathon Carver is holding aseries of Inner Thought meetings there. A con-trast indeed to this gay scene of worldly pleas-ure—but then I have always lived on contrasts!To me the only death is monotony. I always sayto Ellen: Beware of monotony; it's the mother ofall the deadly sins. But my poor child is goingthrough a phase of exaltation, of abhorrence of

the world. You know, I suppose, that she hasdeclined all invitations to stay at Newport,even with her grandmother Mingott? I couldhardly persuade her to come with me to theBlenkers', if you will believe it! The life sheleads is morbid, unnatural. Ah, if she had onlylistened to me when it was still possible ...When the door was still open ... But shall we godown and watch this absorbing match? I hearyour May is one of the competitors."

Strolling toward them from the tent Beaufortadvanced over the lawn, tall, heavy, too tightlybuttoned into a London frock-coat, with one ofhis own orchids in its buttonhole. Archer, whohad not seen him for two or three months, wasstruck by the change in his appearance. In thehot summer light his floridness seemed heavyand bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like anover-fed and over-dressed old man.

There were all sorts of rumours afloat aboutBeaufort. In the spring he had gone off on along cruise to the West Indies in his new steam-yacht, and it was reported that, at variouspoints where he had touched, a lady resem-bling Miss Fanny Ring had been seen in hiscompany. The steam-yacht, built in the Clyde,and fitted with tiled bath-rooms and other un-heard-of luxuries, was said to have cost himhalf a million; and the pearl necklace which hehad presented to his wife on his return was asmagnificent as such expiatory offerings are aptto be. Beaufort's fortune was substantialenough to stand the strain; and yet the disquiet-ing rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenuebut in Wall Street. Some people said he hadspeculated unfortunately in railways, othersthat he was being bled by one of the most insa-tiable members of her profession; and to everyreport of threatened insolvency Beaufort re-plied by a fresh extravagance: the building of anew row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a

new string of race-horses, or the addition of anew Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery.

He advanced toward the Marchioness andNewland with his usual half-sneering smile."Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their busi-ness? Forty minutes, eh? ... Well, that's not sobad, considering your nerves had to be spared."He shook hands with Archer, and then, turningback with them, placed himself on Mrs. Man-son's other side, and said, in a low voice, a fewwords which their companion did not catch.

The Marchioness replied by one of her queerforeign jerks, and a "Que voulez-vous?" whichdeepened Beaufort's frown; but he produced agood semblance of a congratulatory smile as heglanced at Archer to say: "You know May'sgoing to carry off the first prize."

"Ah, then it remains in the family," Medorarippled; and at that moment they reached the

tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlishcloud of mauve muslin and floating veils.

May Welland was just coming out of the tent.In her white dress, with a pale green ribbonabout the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat,she had the same Diana-like aloofness as whenshe had entered the Beaufort ball-room on thenight of her engagement. In the interval not athought seemed to have passed behind her eyesor a feeling through her heart; and though herhusband knew that she had the capacity forboth he marvelled afresh at the way in whichexperience dropped away from her.

She had her bow and arrow in her hand, andplacing herself on the chalk-mark traced on theturf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and tookaim. The attitude was so full of a classic gracethat a murmur of appreciation followed herappearance, and Archer felt the glow of pro-prietorship that so often cheated him into mo-mentary well-being. Her rivals—Mrs. Reggie

Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thor-leys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind herin a lovely anxious group, brown heads andgolden bent above the scores, and pale muslinsand flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tenderrainbow. All were young and pretty, andbathed in summer bloom; but not one had thenymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tensemuscles and happy frown, she bent her soulupon some feat of strength.

"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say,"not one of the lot holds the bow as she does";and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the onlykind of target she'll ever hit."

Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's con-temptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was justwhat a husband should have wished to hearsaid of his wife. The fact that a coarsemindedman found her lacking in attraction was simplyanother proof of her quality; yet the words senta faint shiver through his heart. What if "nice-

ness" carried to that supreme degree were onlya negation, the curtain dropped before an emp-tiness? As he looked at May, returning flushedand calm from her final bull's-eye, he had thefeeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain.

She took the congratulations of her rivals andof the rest of the company with the simplicitythat was her crowning grace. No one couldever be jealous of her triumphs because shemanaged to give the feeling that she wouldhave been just as serene if she had missedthem. But when her eyes met her husband's herface glowed with the pleasure she saw in his.

Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage waswaiting for them, and they drove off among thedispersing carriages, May handling the reinsand Archer sitting at her side.

The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon thebright lawns and shrubberies, and up anddown Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of

victorias, dog-carts, landaus and "vis-a-vis,"carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemenaway from the Beaufort garden-party, orhomeward from their daily afternoon turnalong the Ocean Drive.

"Shall we go to see Granny?" May suddenlyproposed. "I should like to tell her myself thatI've won the prize. There's lots of time beforedinner."

Archer acquiesced, and she turned the poniesdown Narragansett Avenue, crossed SpringStreet and drove out toward the rocky moor-land beyond. In this unfashionable regionCatherine the Great, always indifferent toprecedent and thrifty of purse, had built herselfin her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamedcottage-orne on a bit of cheap land overlookingthe bay. Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, herverandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters. A winding drive led up betweeniron stags and blue glass balls embedded in

mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with ablack and yellow star-patterned parquet floor,upon which opened four small square roomswith heavy flock-papers under ceilings onwhich an Italian house-painter had lavished allthe divinities of Olympus. One of these roomshad been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Min-gott when the burden of flesh descended onher, and in the adjoining one she spent herdays, enthroned in a large armchair betweenthe open door and window, and perpetuallywaving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigiousprojection of her bosom kept so far from therest of her person that the air it set in motionstirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars onthe chair-arms.

Since she had been the means of hastening hismarriage old Catherine had shown to Archerthe cordiality which a service rendered excites

toward the person served. She was persuadedthat irrepressible passion was the cause of hisimpatience; and being an ardent admirer ofimpulsiveness (when it did not lead to thespending of money) she always received himwith a genial twinkle of complicity and a playof allusion to which May seemed fortunatelyimpervious.

She examined and appraised with much inter-est the diamond-tipped arrow which had beenpinned on May's bosom at the conclusion of thematch, remarking that in her day a filigreebrooch would have been thought enough, butthat there was no denying that Beaufort didthings handsomely.

"Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," the oldlady chuckled. "You must leave it in fee to youreldest girl." She pinched May's white arm andwatched the colour flood her face. "Well, well,what have I said to make you shake out the redflag? Ain't there going to be any daughters—

only boys, eh? Good gracious, look at herblushing again all over her blushes! What—can't I say that either? Mercy me—when mychildren beg me to have all those gods andgoddesses painted out overhead I always sayI'm too thankful to have somebody about methat NOTHING can shock!"

Archer burst into a laugh, and May echoed it,crimson to the eyes.

"Well, now tell me all about the party, please,my dears, for I shall never get a straight wordabout it out of that silly Medora," the ancestresscontinued; and, as May exclaimed: "CousinMedora? But I thought she was going back toPortsmouth?" she answered placidly: "So sheis—but she's got to come here first to pick upEllen. Ah—you didn't know Ellen had come tospend the day with me? Such fol-de-rol, her notcoming for the summer; but I gave up arguingwith young people about fifty years ago.Ellen—ELLEN!" she cried in her shrill old

voice, trying to bend forward far enough tocatch a glimpse of the lawn beyond the veran-dah.

There was no answer, and Mrs. Mingott rappedimpatiently with her stick on the shiny floor. Amulatto maid-servant in a bright turban, reply-ing to the summons, informed her mistress thatshe had seen "Miss Ellen" going down the pathto the shore; and Mrs. Mingott turned toArcher.

"Run down and fetch her, like a good grandson;this pretty lady will describe the party to me,"she said; and Archer stood up as if in a dream.

He had heard the Countess Olenska's namepronounced often enough during the year anda half since they had last met, and was evenfamiliar with the main incidents of her life inthe interval. He knew that she had spent theprevious summer at Newport, where she ap-peared to have gone a great deal into society,

but that in the autumn she had suddenly sub-let the "perfect house" which Beaufort had beenat such pains to find for her, and decided toestablish herself in Washington. There, duringthe winter, he had heard of her (as one alwaysheard of pretty women in Washington) as shin-ing in the "brilliant diplomatic society" that wassupposed to make up for the social short-comings of the Administration. He had listenedto these accounts, and to various contradictoryreports on her appearance, her conversation,her point of view and her choice of friends,with the detachment with which one listens toreminiscences of some one long since dead; nottill Medora suddenly spoke her name at thearchery match had Ellen Olenska become aliving presence to him again. The Marchioness'sfoolish lisp had called up a vision of the littlefire-lit drawing-room and the sound of the car-riage-wheels returning down the desertedstreet. He thought of a story he had read, ofsome peasant children in Tuscany lighting a

bunch of straw in a wayside cavern, and reveal-ing old silent images in their painted tomb ...

The way to the shore descended from the bankon which the house was perched to a walkabove the water planted with weeping willows.Through their veil Archer caught the glint ofthe Lime Rock, with its white-washed turretand the tiny house in which the heroic light-house keeper, Ida Lewis, was living her lastvenerable years. Beyond it lay the flat reachesand ugly government chimneys of Goat Island,the bay spreading northward in a shimmer ofgold to Prudence Island with its low growth ofoaks, and the shores of Conanicut faint in thesunset haze.

From the willow walk projected a slightwooden pier ending in a sort of pagoda-likesummer-house; and in the pagoda a lady stood,leaning against the rail, her back to the shore.Archer stopped at the sight as if he had wakedfrom sleep. That vision of the past was a dream,

and the reality was what awaited him in thehouse on the bank overhead: was Mrs. Wel-land's pony-carriage circling around andaround the oval at the door, was May sittingunder the shameless Olympians and glowingwith secret hopes, was the Welland villa at thefar end of Bellevue Avenue, and Mr. Welland,already dressed for dinner, and pacing thedrawing-room floor, watch in hand, with dys-peptic impatience—for it was one of the housesin which one always knew exactly what is hap-pening at a given hour.

"What am I? A son-in-law—" Archer thought.

The figure at the end of the pier had notmoved. For a long moment the young manstood half way down the bank, gazing at thebay furrowed with the coming and going ofsailboats, yacht-launches, fishing-craft and thetrailing black coal-barges hauled by noisy tugs.The lady in the summer-house seemed to beheld by the same sight. Beyond the grey bas-

tions of Fort Adams a long-drawn sunset wassplintering up into a thousand fires, and theradiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beatout through the channel between the LimeRock and the shore. Archer, as he watched,remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, andMontague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lipswithout her knowing that he was in the room.

"She doesn't know—she hasn't guessed.Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, Iwonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said tohimself: "If she doesn't turn before that sailcrosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back."

The boat was gliding out on the receding tide.It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out IdaLewis's little house, and passed across the tur-ret in which the light was hung. Archer waitedtill a wide space of water sparkled between thelast reef of the island and the stern of the boat;but still the figure in the summer-house did notmove.

He turned and walked up the hill.

"I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen—I should haveliked to see her again," May said as they drovehome through the dusk. "But perhaps shewouldn't have cared—she seems so changed."

"Changed?" echoed her husband in a colourlessvoice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitchingears.

"So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving upNew York and her house, and spending hertime with such queer people. Fancy how hide-ously uncomfortable she must be at the Blen-kers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Me-dora out of mischief: to prevent her marryingdreadful people. But I sometimes think we'vealways bored her."

Archer made no answer, and she continued,with a tinge of hardness that he had never be-

fore noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, Iwonder if she wouldn't be happier with herhusband."

He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" heexclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frownon him he added: "I don't think I ever heardyou say a cruel thing before."

"Cruel?"

"Well—watching the contortions of the damnedis supposed to be a favourite sport of the an-gels; but I believe even they don't think peoplehappier in hell."

"It's a pity she ever married abroad then," saidMay, in the placid tone with which her mothermet Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felthimself gently relegated to the category of un-reasonable husbands.

They drove down Bellevue Avenue and turnedin between the chamfered wooden gate-postssurmounted by cast-iron lamps which markedthe approach to the Welland villa. Lights werealready shining through its windows, andArcher, as the carriage stopped, caught aglimpse of his father-in-law, exactly as he hadpictured him, pacing the drawing-room, watchin hand and wearing the pained expression thathe had long since found to be much more effi-cacious than anger.

The young man, as he followed his wife intothe hall, was conscious of a curious reversal ofmood. There was something about the luxuryof the Welland house and the density of theWelland atmosphere, so charged with minuteobservances and exactions, that always stoleinto his system like a narcotic. The heavy car-pets, the watchful servants, the perpetuallyreminding tick of disciplined clocks, the per-petually renewed stack of cards and invitations

on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannicaltrifles binding one hour to the next, and eachmember of the household to all the others,made any less systematised and affluent exis-tence seem unreal and precarious. But now itwas the Welland house, and the life he wasexpected to lead in it, that had become unrealand irrelevant, and the brief scene on the shore,when he had stood irresolute, halfway downthe bank, was as close to him as the blood in hisveins.

All night he lay awake in the big chintz bed-room at May's side, watching the moonlightslant along the carpet, and thinking of EllenOlenska driving home across the gleamingbeaches behind Beaufort's trotters.

XXII.

"A party for the Blenkers—the Blenkers?"

Mr. Welland laid down his knife and fork andlooked anxiously and incredulously across theluncheon-table at his wife, who, adjusting hergold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of highcomedy:

"Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton requestthe pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Welland's com-pany at the meeting of the Wednesday After-noon Club on August 25th at 3 o'clock punctu-ally. To meet Mrs. and the Misses Blenker.

"Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P."

"Good gracious—" Mr. Welland gasped, as if asecond reading had been necessary to bring themonstrous absurdity of the thing home to him.

"Poor Amy Sillerton—you never can tell whather husband will do next," Mrs. Wellandsighed. "I suppose he's just discovered theBlenkers."

Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in theside of Newport society; and a thorn that couldnot be plucked out, for it grew on a venerableand venerated family tree. He was, as peoplesaid, a man who had had "every advantage."His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, hismother a Pennilow of Boston; on each sidethere was wealth and position, and mutualsuitability. Nothing—as Mrs. Welland had of-ten remarked—nothing on earth obliged Emer-son Sillerton to be an archaeologist, or indeed aProfessor of any sort, or to live in Newport inwinter, or do any of the other revolutionarythings that he did. But at least, if he was goingto break with tradition and flout society in theface, he need not have married poor AmyDagonet, who had a right to expect "something

different," and money enough to keep her owncarriage.

No one in the Mingott set could understandwhy Amy Sillerton had submitted so tamely tothe eccentricities of a husband who filled thehouse with long-haired men and short-hairedwomen, and, when he travelled, took her toexplore tombs in Yucatan instead of going toParis or Italy. But there they were, set in theirways, and apparently unaware that they weredifferent from other people; and when theygave one of their dreary annual garden-partiesevery family on the Cliffs, because of the Siller-ton-Pennilow-Dagonet connection, had to drawlots and send an unwilling representative.

"It's a wonder," Mrs. Welland remarked, "thatthey didn't choose the Cup Race day! Do youremember, two years ago, their giving a partyfor a black man on the day of Julia Mingott'sthe dansant? Luckily this time there's nothing

else going on that I know of—for of coursesome of us will have to go."

Mr. Welland sighed nervously. "'Some of us,'my dear—more than one? Three o'clock is sucha very awkward hour. I have to be here at half-past three to take my drops: it's really no usetrying to follow Bencomb's new treatment if Idon't do it systematically; and if I join you later,of course I shall miss my drive." At the thoughthe laid down his knife and fork again, and aflush of anxiety rose to his finely-wrinkledcheek.

"There's no reason why you should go at all,my dear," his wife answered with a cheerful-ness that had become automatic. "I have somecards to leave at the other end of Bellevue Ave-nue, and I'll drop in at about half-past threeand stay long enough to make poor Amy feelthat she hasn't been slighted." She glanced hesi-tatingly at her daughter. "And if Newland'safternoon is provided for perhaps May can

drive you out with the ponies, and try theirnew russet harness."

It was a principle in the Welland family thatpeople's days and hours should be what Mrs.Welland called "provided for." The melancholypossibility of having to "kill time" (especiallyfor those who did not care for whist or solitaire)was a vision that haunted her as the spectre ofthe unemployed haunts the philanthropist.Another of her principles was that parentsshould never (at least visibly) interfere with theplans of their married children; and the diffi-culty of adjusting this respect for May's inde-pendence with the exigency of Mr. Welland'sclaims could be overcome only by the exerciseof an ingenuity which left not a second of Mrs.Welland's own time unprovided for.

"Of course I'll drive with Papa—I'm sureNewland will find something to do," May said,in a tone that gently reminded her husband ofhis lack of response. It was a cause of constant

distress to Mrs. Welland that her son-in-lawshowed so little foresight in planning his days.Often already, during the fortnight that he hadpassed under her roof, when she enquired howhe meant to spend his afternoon, he had an-swered paradoxically: "Oh, I think for a changeI'll just save it instead of spending it—" andonce, when she and May had had to go on along-postponed round of afternoon calls, hehad confessed to having lain all the afternoonunder a rock on the beach below the house.

"Newland never seems to look ahead," Mrs.Welland once ventured to complain to herdaughter; and May answered serenely: "No;but you see it doesn't matter, because whenthere's nothing particular to do he reads abook."

"Ah, yes—like his father!" Mrs. Welland agreed,as if allowing for an inherited oddity; and afterthat the question of Newland's unemploymentwas tacitly dropped.

Nevertheless, as the day for the Sillerton recep-tion approached, May began to show a naturalsolicitude for his welfare, and to suggest a ten-nis match at the Chiverses', or a sail on JuliusBeaufort's cutter, as a means of atoning for hertemporary desertion. "I shall be back by six,you know, dear: Papa never drives later thanthat—" and she was not reassured till Archersaid that he thought of hiring a run-about anddriving up the island to a stud-farm to look at asecond horse for her brougham. They had beenlooking for this horse for some time, and thesuggestion was so acceptable that May glancedat her mother as if to say: "You see he knowshow to plan out his time as well as any of us."

The idea of the stud-farm and the broughamhorse had germinated in Archer's mind on thevery day when the Emerson Sillerton invitationhad first been mentioned; but he had kept it tohimself as if there were something clandestinein the plan, and discovery might prevent its

execution. He had, however, taken the precau-tion to engage in advance a runabout with apair of old livery-stable trotters that could stilldo their eighteen miles on level roads; and attwo o'clock, hastily deserting the luncheon-table, he sprang into the light carriage anddrove off.

The day was perfect. A breeze from the northdrove little puffs of white cloud across an ul-tramarine sky, with a bright sea running underit. Bellevue Avenue was empty at that hour,and after dropping the stable-lad at the cornerof Mill Street Archer turned down the OldBeach Road and drove across Eastman's Beach.

He had the feeling of unexplained excitementwith which, on half-holidays at school, he usedto start off into the unknown. Taking his pair atan easy gait, he counted on reaching the stud-farm, which was not far beyond ParadiseRocks, before three o'clock; so that, after look-ing over the horse (and trying him if he seemed

promising) he would still have four goldenhours to dispose of.

As soon as he heard of the Sillerton's party hehad said to himself that the Marchioness Man-son would certainly come to Newport with theBlenkers, and that Madame Olenska mightagain take the opportunity of spending the daywith her grandmother. At any rate, the Blenkerhabitation would probably be deserted, and hewould be able, without indiscretion, to satisfy avague curiosity concerning it. He was not surethat he wanted to see the Countess Olenskaagain; but ever since he had looked at her fromthe path above the bay he had wanted, irra-tionally and indescribably, to see the place shewas living in, and to follow the movements ofher imagined figure as he had watched the realone in the summer-house. The longing waswith him day and night, an incessant undefin-able craving, like the sudden whim of a sickman for food or drink once tasted and long

since forgotten. He could not see beyond thecraving, or picture what it might lead to, for hewas not conscious of any wish to speak to Ma-dame Olenska or to hear her voice. He simplyfelt that if he could carry away the vision of thespot of earth she walked on, and the way thesky and sea enclosed it, the rest of the worldmight seem less empty.

When he reached the stud-farm a glanceshowed him that the horse was not what hewanted; nevertheless he took a turn behind it inorder to prove to himself that he was not in ahurry. But at three o'clock he shook out thereins over the trotters and turned into the by-roads leading to Portsmouth. The wind haddropped and a faint haze on the horizonshowed that a fog was waiting to steal up theSaconnet on the turn of the tide; but all abouthim fields and woods were steeped in goldenlight.

He drove past grey-shingled farm-houses inorchards, past hay-fields and groves of oak,past villages with white steeples rising sharplyinto the fading sky; and at last, after stopping toask the way of some men at work in a field, heturned down a lane between high banks ofgoldenrod and brambles. At the end of the lanewas the blue glimmer of the river; to the left,standing in front of a clump of oaks and ma-ples, he saw a long tumble-down house withwhite paint peeling from its clapboards.

On the road-side facing the gateway stood oneof the open sheds in which the New Englandershelters his farming implements and visitors"hitch" their "teams." Archer, jumping down,led his pair into the shed, and after tying themto a post turned toward the house. The patch oflawn before it had relapsed into a hay-field; butto the left an overgrown box-garden full ofdahlias and rusty rose-bushes encircled aghostly summer-house of trellis-work that had

once been white, surmounted by a woodenCupid who had lost his bow and arrow butcontinued to take ineffectual aim.

Archer leaned for a while against the gate. Noone was in sight, and not a sound came fromthe open windows of the house: a grizzledNewfoundland dozing before the door seemedas ineffectual a guardian as the arrowless Cu-pid. It was strange to think that this place ofsilence and decay was the home of the turbu-lent Blenkers; yet Archer was sure that he wasnot mistaken.

For a long time he stood there, content to takein the scene, and gradually falling under itsdrowsy spell; but at length he roused himself tothe sense of the passing time. Should he lookhis fill and then drive away? He stood irreso-lute, wishing suddenly to see the inside of thehouse, so that he might picture the room thatMadame Olenska sat in. There was nothing toprevent his walking up to the door and ringing

the bell; if, as he supposed, she was away withthe rest of the party, he could easily give hisname, and ask permission to go into the sitting-room to write a message.

But instead, he crossed the lawn and turnedtoward the box-garden. As he entered it hecaught sight of something bright-coloured inthe summer-house, and presently made it outto be a pink parasol. The parasol drew him likea magnet: he was sure it was hers. He went intothe summer-house, and sitting down on therickety seat picked up the silken thing andlooked at its carved handle, which was made ofsome rare wood that gave out an aromaticscent. Archer lifted the handle to his lips.

He heard a rustle of skirts against the box, andsat motionless, leaning on the parasol handlewith clasped hands, and letting the rustle comenearer without lifting his eyes. He had alwaysknown that this must happen ...

"Oh, Mr. Archer!" exclaimed a loud youngvoice; and looking up he saw before him theyoungest and largest of the Blenker girls,blonde and blowsy, in bedraggled muslin. Ared blotch on one of her cheeks seemed to showthat it had recently been pressed against a pil-low, and her half-awakened eyes stared at himhospitably but confusedly.

"Gracious—where did you drop from? I musthave been sound asleep in the hammock. Eve-rybody else has gone to Newport. Did youring?" she incoherently enquired.

Archer's confusion was greater than hers. "I—no—that is, I was just going to. I had to comeup the island to see about a horse, and I droveover on a chance of finding Mrs. Blenker andyour visitors. But the house seemed empty—soI sat down to wait."

Miss Blenker, shaking off the fumes of sleep,looked at him with increasing interest. "The

house IS empty. Mother's not here, or the Mar-chioness—or anybody but me." Her glance be-came faintly reproachful. "Didn't you knowthat Professor and Mrs. Sillerton are giving agarden-party for mother and all of us this af-ternoon? It was too unlucky that I couldn't go;but I've had a sore throat, and mother wasafraid of the drive home this evening. Did youever know anything so disappointing? Ofcourse," she added gaily, "I shouldn't haveminded half as much if I'd known you werecoming."

Symptoms of a lumbering coquetry becamevisible in her, and Archer found the strength tobreak in: "But Madame Olenska—has she goneto Newport too?"

Miss Blenker looked at him with surprise. "Ma-dame Olenska—didn't you know she'd beencalled away?"

"Called away?—"

"Oh, my best parasol! I lent it to that goose of aKatie, because it matched her ribbons, and thecareless thing must have dropped it here. WeBlenkers are all like that ... real Bohemians!"Recovering the sunshade with a powerful handshe unfurled it and suspended its rosy domeabove her head. "Yes, Ellen was called awayyesterday: she lets us call her Ellen, you know.A telegram came from Boston: she said shemight be gone for two days. I do LOVE the wayshe does her hair, don't you?" Miss Blenkerrambled on.

Archer continued to stare through her asthough she had been transparent. All he sawwas the trumpery parasol that arched its pink-ness above her giggling head.

After a moment he ventured: "You don't hap-pen to know why Madame Olenska went toBoston? I hope it was not on account of badnews?"

Miss Blenker took this with a cheerful incredu-lity. "Oh, I don't believe so. She didn't tell uswhat was in the telegram. I think she didn'twant the Marchioness to know. She's so roman-tic-looking, isn't she? Doesn't she remind you ofMrs. Scott-Siddons when she reads 'LadyGeraldine's Courtship'? Did you never hearher?"

Archer was dealing hurriedly with crowdingthoughts. His whole future seemed suddenly tobe unrolled before him; and passing down itsendless emptiness he saw the dwindling figureof a man to whom nothing was ever to happen.He glanced about him at the unpruned garden,the tumble-down house, and the oak-groveunder which the dusk was gathering. It hadseemed so exactly the place in which he oughtto have found Madame Olenska; and she wasfar away, and even the pink sunshade was nothers ...

He frowned and hesitated. "You don't know, Isuppose—I shall be in Boston tomorrow. If Icould manage to see her—"

He felt that Miss Blenker was losing interest inhim, though her smile persisted. "Oh, of course;how lovely of you! She's staying at the ParkerHouse; it must be horrible there in thisweather."

After that Archer was but intermittently awareof the remarks they exchanged. He could onlyremember stoutly resisting her entreaty that heshould await the returning family and havehigh tea with them before he drove home. Atlength, with his hostess still at his side, hepassed out of range of the wooden Cupid, un-fastened his horses and drove off. At the turn ofthe lane he saw Miss Blenker standing at thegate and waving the pink parasol.

XXIII.

The next morning, when Archer got out of theFall River train, he emerged upon a steamingmidsummer Boston. The streets near the stationwere full of the smell of beer and coffee anddecaying fruit and a shirt-sleeved populacemoved through them with the intimate aban-don of boarders going down the passage to thebathroom.

Archer found a cab and drove to the SomersetClub for breakfast. Even the fashionable quar-ters had the air of untidy domesticity to whichno excess of heat ever degrades the Europeancities. Care-takers in calico lounged on thedoor-steps of the wealthy, and the Commonlooked like a pleasure-ground on the morrowof a Masonic picnic. If Archer had tried toimagine Ellen Olenska in improbable scenes hecould not have called up any into which it was

more difficult to fit her than this heat-prostrated and deserted Boston.

He breakfasted with appetite and method, be-ginning with a slice of melon, and studying amorning paper while he waited for his toastand scrambled eggs. A new sense of energyand activity had possessed him ever since hehad announced to May the night before that hehad business in Boston, and should take theFall River boat that night and go on to NewYork the following evening. It had always beenunderstood that he would return to town earlyin the week, and when he got back from hisexpedition to Portsmouth a letter from the of-fice, which fate had conspicuously placed on acorner of the hall table, sufficed to justify hissudden change of plan. He was even ashamedof the ease with which the whole thing hadbeen done: it reminded him, for an uncomfort-able moment, of Lawrence Lefferts's masterlycontrivances for securing his freedom. But this

did not long trouble him, for he was not in ananalytic mood.

After breakfast he smoked a cigarette andglanced over the Commercial Advertiser. Whilehe was thus engaged two or three men he knewcame in, and the usual greetings were ex-changed: it was the same world after all,though he had such a queer sense of havingslipped through the meshes of time and space.

He looked at his watch, and finding that it washalf-past nine got up and went into the writing-room. There he wrote a few lines, and ordereda messenger to take a cab to the Parker Houseand wait for the answer. He then sat down be-hind another newspaper and tried to calculatehow long it would take a cab to get to theParker House.

"The lady was out, sir," he suddenly heard awaiter's voice at his elbow; and he stammered:

"Out?—" as if it were a word in a strange lan-guage.

He got up and went into the hall. It must be amistake: she could not be out at that hour. Heflushed with anger at his own stupidity: whyhad he not sent the note as soon as he arrived?

He found his hat and stick and went forth intothe street. The city had suddenly become asstrange and vast and empty as if he were atraveller from distant lands. For a moment hestood on the door-step hesitating; then he de-cided to go to the Parker House. What if themessenger had been misinformed, and shewere still there?

He started to walk across the Common; and onthe first bench, under a tree, he saw her sitting.She had a grey silk sunshade over her head—how could he ever have imagined her with apink one? As he approached he was struck byher listless attitude: she sat there as if she had

nothing else to do. He saw her drooping pro-file, and the knot of hair fastened low in theneck under her dark hat, and the long wrinkledglove on the hand that held the sunshade. Hecame a step or two nearer, and she turned andlooked at him.

"Oh"—she said; and for the first time he noticeda startled look on her face; but in another mo-ment it gave way to a slow smile of wonderand contentment.

"Oh"—she murmured again, on a differentnote, as he stood looking down at her; andwithout rising she made a place for him on thebench.

"I'm here on business—just got here," Archerexplained; and, without knowing why, he sud-denly began to feign astonishment at seeingher. "But what on earth are you doing in thiswilderness?" He had really no idea what hewas saying: he felt as if he were shouting at her

across endless distances, and she might vanishagain before he could overtake her.

"I? Oh, I'm here on business too," she answered,turning her head toward him so that they wereface to face. The words hardly reached him: hewas aware only of her voice, and of the star-tling fact that not an echo of it had remained inhis memory. He had not even remembered thatit was low-pitched, with a faint roughness onthe consonants.

"You do your hair differently," he said, hisheart beating as if he had uttered somethingirrevocable.

"Differently? No—it's only that I do it as best Ican when I'm without Nastasia."

"Nastasia; but isn't she with you?"

"No; I'm alone. For two days it was not worthwhile to bring her."

"You're alone—at the Parker House?"

She looked at him with a flash of her old mal-ice. "Does it strike you as dangerous?"

"No; not dangerous—"

"But unconventional? I see; I suppose it is." Sheconsidered a moment. "I hadn't thought of it,because I've just done something so much moreunconventional." The faint tinge of irony lin-gered in her eyes. "I've just refused to take backa sum of money—that belonged to me."

Archer sprang up and moved a step or twoaway. She had furled her parasol and sat ab-sently drawing patterns on the gravel. Pres-ently he came back and stood before her.

"Some one—has come here to meet you?"

"Yes."

"With this offer?"

She nodded.

"And you refused—because of the conditions?"

"I refused," she said after a moment.

He sat down by her again. "What were the con-ditions?"

"Oh, they were not onerous: just to sit at thehead of his table now and then."

There was another interval of silence. Archer'sheart had slammed itself shut in the queer wayit had, and he sat vainly groping for a word.

"He wants you back—at any price?"

"Well—a considerable price. At least the sum isconsiderable for me."

He paused again, beating about the question hefelt he must put.

"It was to meet him here that you came?"

She stared, and then burst into a laugh. "Meethim—my husband? HERE? At this season he'salways at Cowes or Baden."

"He sent some one?"

"Yes."

"With a letter?"

She shook her head. "No; just a message. Henever writes. I don't think I've had more thanone letter from him." The allusion brought thecolour to her cheek, and it reflected itself inArcher's vivid blush.

"Why does he never write?"

"Why should he? What does one have secretar-ies for?"

The young man's blush deepened. She hadpronounced the word as if it had no more sig-nificance than any other in her vocabulary. Fora moment it was on the tip of his tongue to ask:"Did he send his secretary, then?" But the re-membrance of Count Olenski's only letter to hiswife was too present to him. He paused again,and then took another plunge.

"And the person?"—

"The emissary? The emissary," Madame Olen-ska rejoined, still smiling, "might, for all I care,have left already; but he has insisted on waitingtill this evening ... in case ... on the chance ..."

"And you came out here to think the chanceover?"

"I came out to get a breath of air. The hotel's toostifling. I'm taking the afternoon train back toPortsmouth."

They sat silent, not looking at each other, butstraight ahead at the people passing along thepath. Finally she turned her eyes again to hisface and said: "You're not changed."

He felt like answering: "I was, till I saw youagain;" but instead he stood up abruptly andglanced about him at the untidy swelteringpark.

"This is horrible. Why shouldn't we go out alittle on the bay? There's a breeze, and it will becooler. We might take the steamboat down toPoint Arley." She glanced up at him hesitat-ingly and he went on: "On a Monday morningthere won't be anybody on the boat. My traindoesn't leave till evening: I'm going back toNew York. Why shouldn't we?" he insisted,looking down at her; and suddenly he brokeout: "Haven't we done all we could?"

"Oh"—she murmured again. She stood up andreopened her sunshade, glancing about her as if

to take counsel of the scene, and assure herselfof the impossibility of remaining in it. Then hereyes returned to his face. "You mustn't saythings like that to me," she said.

"I'll say anything you like; or nothing. I won'topen my mouth unless you tell me to. Whatharm can it do to anybody? All I want is to lis-ten to you," he stammered.

She drew out a little gold-faced watch on anenamelled chain. "Oh, don't calculate," he brokeout; "give me the day! I want to get you awayfrom that man. At what time was he coming?"

Her colour rose again. "At eleven."

"Then you must come at once."

"You needn't be afraid—if I don't come."

"Nor you either—if you do. I swear I only wantto hear about you, to know what you've beendoing. It's a hundred years since we've met—it

may be another hundred before we meetagain."

She still wavered, her anxious eyes on his face."Why didn't you come down to the beach tofetch me, the day I was at Granny's?" she asked.

"Because you didn't look round—because youdidn't know I was there. I swore I wouldn'tunless you looked round." He laughed as thechildishness of the confession struck him.

"But I didn't look round on purpose."

"On purpose?"

"I knew you were there; when you drove in Irecognised the ponies. So I went down to thebeach."

"To get away from me as far as you could?"

She repeated in a low voice: "To get away fromyou as far as I could."

He laughed out again, this time in boyish satis-faction. "Well, you see it's no use. I may as welltell you," he added, "that the business I camehere for was just to find you. But, look here, wemust start or we shall miss our boat."

"Our boat?" She frowned perplexedly, and thensmiled. "Oh, but I must go back to the hotelfirst: I must leave a note—"

"As many notes as you please. You can writehere." He drew out a note-case and one of thenew stylographic pens. "I've even got an enve-lope—you see how everything's predestined!There—steady the thing on your knee, and I'llget the pen going in a second. They have to behumoured; wait—" He banged the hand thatheld the pen against the back of the bench. "It'slike jerking down the mercury in a thermome-ter: just a trick. Now try—"

She laughed, and bending over the sheet ofpaper which he had laid on his note-case, be-

gan to write. Archer walked away a few steps,staring with radiant unseeing eyes at thepassersby, who, in their turn, paused to stare atthe unwonted sight of a fashionably-dressedlady writing a note on her knee on a bench inthe Common.

Madame Olenska slipped the sheet into theenvelope, wrote a name on it, and put it intoher pocket. Then she too stood up.

They walked back toward Beacon Street, andnear the club Archer caught sight of the plush-lined "herdic" which had carried his note to theParker House, and whose driver was reposingfrom this effort by bathing his brow at the cor-ner hydrant.

"I told you everything was predestined! Here'sa cab for us. You see!" They laughed, aston-ished at the miracle of picking up a public con-veyance at that hour, and in that unlikely spot,

in a city where cab-stands were still a "foreign"novelty.

Archer, looking at his watch, saw that therewas time to drive to the Parker House beforegoing to the steamboat landing. They rattledthrough the hot streets and drew up at the doorof the hotel.

Archer held out his hand for the letter. "Shall Itake it in?" he asked; but Madame Olenska,shaking her head, sprang out and disappearedthrough the glazed doors. It was barely half-past ten; but what if the emissary, impatient forher reply, and not knowing how else to employhis time, were already seated among the travel-lers with cooling drinks at their elbows ofwhom Archer had caught a glimpse as shewent in?

He waited, pacing up and down before theherdic. A Sicilian youth with eyes like Nasta-sia's offered to shine his boots, and an Irish ma-

tron to sell him peaches; and every few mo-ments the doors opened to let out hot men withstraw hats tilted far back, who glanced at himas they went by. He marvelled that the doorshould open so often, and that all the people itlet out should look so like each other, and solike all the other hot men who, at that hour,through the length and breadth of the land,were passing continuously in and out of theswinging doors of hotels.

And then, suddenly, came a face that he couldnot relate to the other faces. He caught but aflash of it, for his pacings had carried him to thefarthest point of his beat, and it was in turningback to the hotel that he saw, in a group oftypical countenances—the lank and weary, theround and surprised, the lantern-jawed andmild—this other face that was so many morethings at once, and things so different. It wasthat of a young man, pale too, and half-extinguished by the heat, or worry, or both, but

somehow, quicker, vivider, more conscious; orperhaps seeming so because he was so differ-ent. Archer hung a moment on a thin thread ofmemory, but it snapped and floated off withthe disappearing face—apparently that of someforeign business man, looking doubly foreignin such a setting. He vanished in the stream ofpassersby, and Archer resumed his patrol.

He did not care to be seen watch in handwithin view of the hotel, and his unaided reck-oning of the lapse of time led him to concludethat, if Madame Olenska was so long in reap-pearing, it could only be because she had metthe emissary and been waylaid by him. At thethought Archer's apprehension rose to anguish.

"If she doesn't come soon I'll go in and findher," he said.

The doors swung open again and she was at hisside. They got into the herdic, and as it droveoff he took out his watch and saw that she had

been absent just three minutes. In the clatter ofloose windows that made talk impossible theybumped over the disjointed cobblestones to thewharf.

Seated side by side on a bench of the half-empty boat they found that they had hardlyanything to say to each other, or rather thatwhat they had to say communicated itself bestin the blessed silence of their release and theirisolation.

As the paddle-wheels began to turn, andwharves and shipping to recede through theveil of heat, it seemed to Archer that everythingin the old familiar world of habit was recedingalso. He longed to ask Madame Olenska if shedid not have the same feeling: the feeling thatthey were starting on some long voyage fromwhich they might never return. But he wasafraid to say it, or anything else that might dis-turb the delicate balance of her trust in him. In

reality he had no wish to betray that trust.There had been days and nights when thememory of their kiss had burned and burnedon his lips; the day before even, on the drive toPortsmouth, the thought of her had runthrough him like fire; but now that she wasbeside him, and they were drifting forth intothis unknown world, they seemed to havereached the kind of deeper nearness that atouch may sunder.

As the boat left the harbour and turned sea-ward a breeze stirred about them and the baybroke up into long oily undulations, then intoripples tipped with spray. The fog of sultrinessstill hung over the city, but ahead lay a freshworld of ruffled waters, and distant promonto-ries with light-houses in the sun. MadameOlenska, leaning back against the boat-rail,drank in the coolness between parted lips. Shehad wound a long veil about her hat, but it lefther face uncovered, and Archer was struck by

the tranquil gaiety of her expression. Sheseemed to take their adventure as a matter ofcourse, and to be neither in fear of unexpectedencounters, nor (what was worse) undulyelated by their possibility.

In the bare dining-room of the inn, which hehad hoped they would have to themselves,they found a strident party of innocent-lookingyoung men and women—school-teachers on aholiday, the landlord told them—and Archer'sheart sank at the idea of having to talk throughtheir noise.

"This is hopeless—I'll ask for a private room,"he said; and Madame Olenska, without offeringany objection, waited while he went in searchof it. The room opened on a long wooden ve-randah, with the sea coming in at the windows.It was bare and cool, with a table covered witha coarse checkered cloth and adorned by a bot-tle of pickles and a blueberry pie under a cage.No more guileless-looking cabinet particulier

ever offered its shelter to a clandestine couple:Archer fancied he saw the sense of its reassur-ance in the faintly amused smile with whichMadame Olenska sat down opposite to him. Awoman who had run away from her hus-band—and reputedly with another man—waslikely to have mastered the art of taking thingsfor granted; but something in the quality of hercomposure took the edge from his irony. Bybeing so quiet, so unsurprised and so simpleshe had managed to brush away the conven-tions and make him feel that to seek to be alonewas the natural thing for two old friends whohad so much to say to each other....

XXIV.

They lunched slowly and meditatively, withmute intervals between rushes of talk; for, thespell once broken, they had much to say, and

yet moments when saying became the mereaccompaniment to long duologues of silence.Archer kept the talk from his own affairs, notwith conscious intention but because he did notwant to miss a word of her history; and leaningon the table, her chin resting on her claspedhands, she talked to him of the year and a halfsince they had met.

She had grown tired of what people called "so-ciety"; New York was kind, it was almost op-pressively hospitable; she should never forgetthe way in which it had welcomed her back;but after the first flush of novelty she hadfound herself, as she phrased it, too "different"to care for the things it cared about—and so shehad decided to try Washington, where one wassupposed to meet more varieties of people andof opinion. And on the whole she shouldprobably settle down in Washington, and makea home there for poor Medora, who had wornout the patience of all her other relations just at

the time when she most needed looking afterand protecting from matrimonial perils.

"But Dr. Carver—aren't you afraid of Dr.Carver? I hear he's been staying with you at theBlenkers'."

She smiled. "Oh, the Carver danger is over. Dr.Carver is a very clever man. He wants a richwife to finance his plans, and Medora is simplya good advertisement as a convert."

"A convert to what?"

"To all sorts of new and crazy social schemes.But, do you know, they interest me more thanthe blind conformity to tradition—somebodyelse's tradition—that I see among our ownfriends. It seems stupid to have discoveredAmerica only to make it into a copy of anothercountry." She smiled across the table. "Do yousuppose Christopher Columbus would have

taken all that trouble just to go to the Operawith the Selfridge Merrys?"

Archer changed colour. "And Beaufort—do yousay these things to Beaufort?" he askedabruptly.

"I haven't seen him for a long time. But I usedto; and he understands."

"Ah, it's what I've always told you; you don'tlike us. And you like Beaufort because he's sounlike us." He looked about the bare room andout at the bare beach and the row of stark whitevillage houses strung along the shore. "We'redamnably dull. We've no character, no colour,no variety.—I wonder," he broke out, "why youdon't go back?"

Her eyes darkened, and he expected an indig-nant rejoinder. But she sat silent, as if thinkingover what he had said, and he grew frightenedlest she should answer that she wondered too.

At length she said: "I believe it's because ofyou."

It was impossible to make the confession moredispassionately, or in a tone less encouraging tothe vanity of the person addressed. Archerreddened to the temples, but dared not move orspeak: it was as if her words had been somerare butterfly that the least motion might driveoff on startled wings, but that might gather aflock about it if it were left undisturbed.

"At least," she continued, "it was you whomade me understand that under the dullnessthere are things so fine and sensitive and deli-cate that even those I most cared for in myother life look cheap in comparison. I don'tknow how to explain myself"—she drew to-gether her troubled brows—"but it seems as ifI'd never before understood with how muchthat is hard and shabby and base the most ex-quisite pleasures may be paid."

"Exquisite pleasures—it's something to havehad them!" he felt like retorting; but the appealin her eyes kept him silent.

"I want," she went on, "to be perfectly honestwith you—and with myself. For a long timeI've hoped this chance would come: that Imight tell you how you've helped me, whatyou've made of me—"

Archer sat staring beneath frowning brows. Heinterrupted her with a laugh. "And what doyou make out that you've made of me?"

She paled a little. "Of you?"

"Yes: for I'm of your making much more thanyou ever were of mine. I'm the man who mar-ried one woman because another one told himto."

Her paleness turned to a fugitive flush. "Ithought—you promised—you were not to saysuch things today."

"Ah—how like a woman! None of you will eversee a bad business through!"

She lowered her voice. "IS it a bad business—for May?"

He stood in the window, drumming against theraised sash, and feeling in every fibre the wist-ful tenderness with which she had spoken hercousin's name.

"For that's the thing we've always got to thinkof—haven't we—by your own showing?" sheinsisted.

"My own showing?" he echoed, his blank eyesstill on the sea.

"Or if not," she continued, pursuing her ownthought with a painful application, "if it's not

worth while to have given up, to have missedthings, so that others may be saved from disil-lusionment and misery—then everything Icame home for, everything that made my otherlife seem by contrast so bare and so poor be-cause no one there took account of them—allthese things are a sham or a dream—"

He turned around without moving from hisplace. "And in that case there's no reason onearth why you shouldn't go back?" he con-cluded for her.

Her eyes were clinging to him desperately. "Oh,IS there no reason?"

"Not if you staked your all on the success of mymarriage. My marriage," he said savagely, "isn'tgoing to be a sight to keep you here." She madeno answer, and he went on: "What's the use?You gave me my first glimpse of a real life, andat the same moment you asked me to go on

with a sham one. It's beyond human endur-ing—that's all."

"Oh, don't say that; when I'm enduring it!" sheburst out, her eyes filling.

Her arms had dropped along the table, and shesat with her face abandoned to his gaze as if inthe recklessness of a desperate peril. The faceexposed her as much as if it had been herwhole person, with the soul behind it: Archerstood dumb, overwhelmed by what it suddenlytold him.

"You too—oh, all this time, you too?"

For answer, she let the tears on her lids over-flow and run slowly downward.

Half the width of the room was still betweenthem, and neither made any show of moving.Archer was conscious of a curious indifferenceto her bodily presence: he would hardly have

been aware of it if one of the hands she hadflung out on the table had not drawn his gazeas on the occasion when, in the little Twenty-third Street house, he had kept his eye on it inorder not to look at her face. Now his imagina-tion spun about the hand as about the edge of avortex; but still he made no effort to drawnearer. He had known the love that is fed oncaresses and feeds them; but this passion thatwas closer than his bones was not to be superfi-cially satisfied. His one terror was to do any-thing which might efface the sound and im-pression of her words; his one thought, that heshould never again feel quite alone.

But after a moment the sense of waste and ruinovercame him. There they were, close togetherand safe and shut in; yet so chained to theirseparate destinies that they might as well havebeen half the world apart.

"What's the use—when you will go back?" hebroke out, a great hopeless HOW ON EARTH

CAN I KEEP YOU? crying out to her beneathhis words.

She sat motionless, with lowered lids. "Oh—Ishan't go yet!"

"Not yet? Some time, then? Some time that youalready foresee?"

At that she raised her clearest eyes. "I promiseyou: not as long as you hold out. Not as long aswe can look straight at each other like this."

He dropped into his chair. What her answerreally said was: "If you lift a finger you'll driveme back: back to all the abominations youknow of, and all the temptations you halfguess." He understood it as clearly as if she haduttered the words, and the thought kept himanchored to his side of the table in a kind ofmoved and sacred submission.

"What a life for you!—" he groaned.

"Oh—as long as it's a part of yours."

"And mine a part of yours?"

She nodded.

"And that's to be all—for either of us?"

"Well; it IS all, isn't it?"

At that he sprang up, forgetting everything butthe sweetness of her face. She rose too, not as ifto meet him or to flee from him, but quietly, asthough the worst of the task were done and shehad only to wait; so quietly that, as he cameclose, her outstretched hands acted not as acheck but as a guide to him. They fell into his,while her arms, extended but not rigid, kepthim far enough off to let her surrendered facesay the rest.

They may have stood in that way for a longtime, or only for a few moments; but it waslong enough for her silence to communicate all

she had to say, and for him to feel that only onething mattered. He must do nothing to makethis meeting their last; he must leave their fu-ture in her care, asking only that she shouldkeep fast hold of it.

"Don't—don't be unhappy," she said, with abreak in her voice, as she drew her hands away;and he answered: "You won't go back—youwon't go back?" as if it were the one possibilityhe could not bear.

"I won't go back," she said; and turning awayshe opened the door and led the way into thepublic dining-room.

The strident school-teachers were gathering uptheir possessions preparatory to a stragglingflight to the wharf; across the beach lay thewhite steam-boat at the pier; and over thesunlit waters Boston loomed in a line of haze.

XXV.

Once more on the boat, and in the presence ofothers, Archer felt a tranquillity of spirit thatsurprised as much as it sustained him.

The day, according to any current valuation,had been a rather ridiculous failure; he had notso much as touched Madame Olenska's handwith his lips, or extracted one word from herthat gave promise of farther opportunities.Nevertheless, for a man sick with unsatisfiedlove, and parting for an indefinite period fromthe object of his passion, he felt himself almosthumiliatingly calm and comforted. It was theperfect balance she had held between their loy-alty to others and their honesty to themselvesthat had so stirred and yet tranquillized him; abalance not artfully calculated, as her tears andher falterings showed, but resulting naturallyfrom her unabashed sincerity. It filled him witha tender awe, now the danger was over, and

made him thank the fates that no personal van-ity, no sense of playing a part before sophisti-cated witnesses, had tempted him to tempt her.Even after they had clasped hands for good-byeat the Fall River station, and he had turnedaway alone, the conviction remained with himof having saved out of their meeting muchmore than he had sacrificed.

He wandered back to the club, and went andsat alone in the deserted library, turning andturning over in his thoughts every separatesecond of their hours together. It was clear tohim, and it grew more clear under closer scru-tiny, that if she should finally decide on return-ing to Europe—returning to her husband—itwould not be because her old life tempted her,even on the new terms offered. No: she wouldgo only if she felt herself becoming a tempta-tion to Archer, a temptation to fall away fromthe standard they had both set up. Her choicewould be to stay near him as long as he did not

ask her to come nearer; and it depended onhimself to keep her just there, safe but se-cluded.

In the train these thoughts were still with him.They enclosed him in a kind of golden haze,through which the faces about him looked re-mote and indistinct: he had a feeling that if hespoke to his fellow-travellers they would notunderstand what he was saying. In this state ofabstraction he found himself, the followingmorning, waking to the reality of a stifling Sep-tember day in New York. The heat-witheredfaces in the long train streamed past him, andhe continued to stare at them through the samegolden blur; but suddenly, as he left the station,one of the faces detached itself, came closer andforced itself upon his consciousness. It was, ashe instantly recalled, the face of the young manhe had seen, the day before, passing out of theParker House, and had noted as not conform-

ing to type, as not having an American hotelface.

The same thing struck him now; and again hebecame aware of a dim stir of former associa-tions. The young man stood looking about himwith the dazed air of the foreigner flung uponthe harsh mercies of American travel; then headvanced toward Archer, lifted his hat, andsaid in English: "Surely, Monsieur, we met inLondon?"

"Ah, to be sure: in London!" Archer grasped hishand with curiosity and sympathy. "So youDID get here, after all?" he exclaimed, casting awondering eye on the astute and haggard littlecountenance of young Carfry's French tutor.

"Oh, I got here—yes," M. Riviere smiled withdrawn lips. "But not for long; I return the dayafter tomorrow." He stood grasping his lightvalise in one neatly gloved hand, and gazing

anxiously, perplexedly, almost appealingly,into Archer's face.

"I wonder, Monsieur, since I've had the goodluck to run across you, if I might—"

"I was just going to suggest it: come to lunch-eon, won't you? Down town, I mean: if you'lllook me up in my office I'll take you to a verydecent restaurant in that quarter."

M. Riviere was visibly touched and surprised."You're too kind. But I was only going to ask ifyou would tell me how to reach some sort ofconveyance. There are no porters, and no onehere seems to listen—"

"I know: our American stations must surpriseyou. When you ask for a porter they give youchewing-gum. But if you'll come along I'll ex-tricate you; and you must really lunch with me,you know."

The young man, after a just perceptible hesita-tion, replied, with profuse thanks, and in a tonethat did not carry complete conviction, that hewas already engaged; but when they hadreached the comparative reassurance of thestreet he asked if he might call that afternoon.

Archer, at ease in the midsummer leisure of theoffice, fixed an hour and scribbled his address,which the Frenchman pocketed with reiteratedthanks and a wide flourish of his hat. A horse-car received him, and Archer walked away.

Punctually at the hour M. Riviere appeared,shaved, smoothed-out, but still unmistakablydrawn and serious. Archer was alone in hisoffice, and the young man, before accepting theseat he proffered, began abruptly: "I believe Isaw you, sir, yesterday in Boston."

The statement was insignificant enough, andArcher was about to frame an assent when his

words were checked by something mysteriousyet illuminating in his visitor's insistent gaze.

"It is extraordinary, very extraordinary," M.Riviere continued, "that we should have met inthe circumstances in which I find myself."

"What circumstances?" Archer asked, wonder-ing a little crudely if he needed money.

M. Riviere continued to study him with tenta-tive eyes. "I have come, not to look for em-ployment, as I spoke of doing when we lastmet, but on a special mission—"

"Ah—!" Archer exclaimed. In a flash the twomeetings had connected themselves in hismind. He paused to take in the situation thussuddenly lighted up for him, and M. Rivierealso remained silent, as if aware that what hehad said was enough.

"A special mission," Archer at length repeated.

The young Frenchman, opening his palms,raised them slightly, and the two men contin-ued to look at each other across the office-desktill Archer roused himself to say: "Do sit down";whereupon M. Riviere bowed, took a distantchair, and again waited.

"It was about this mission that you wanted toconsult me?" Archer finally asked.

M. Riviere bent his head. "Not in my own be-half: on that score I—I have fully dealt withmyself. I should like—if I may—to speak to youabout the Countess Olenska."

Archer had known for the last few minutes thatthe words were coming; but when they camethey sent the blood rushing to his temples as ifhe had been caught by a bent-back branch in athicket.

"And on whose behalf," he said, "do you wishto do this?"

M. Riviere met the question sturdily. "Well—Imight say HERS, if it did not sound like a lib-erty. Shall I say instead: on behalf of abstractjustice?"

Archer considered him ironically. "In otherwords: you are Count Olenski's messenger?"

He saw his blush more darkly reflected in M.Riviere's sallow countenance. "Not to YOU,Monsieur. If I come to you, it is on quite othergrounds."

"What right have you, in the circumstances, toBE on any other ground?" Archer retorted. "Ifyou're an emissary you're an emissary."

The young man considered. "My mission isover: as far as the Countess Olenska goes, it hasfailed."

"I can't help that," Archer rejoined on the samenote of irony.

"No: but you can help—" M. Riviere paused,turned his hat about in his still carefully glovedhands, looked into its lining and then back atArcher's face. "You can help, Monsieur, I amconvinced, to make it equally a failure with herfamily."

Archer pushed back his chair and stood up."Well—and by God I will!" he exclaimed. Hestood with his hands in his pockets, staringdown wrathfully at the little Frenchman, whoseface, though he too had risen, was still an inchor two below the line of Archer's eyes.

M. Riviere paled to his normal hue: paler thanthat his complexion could hardly turn.

"Why the devil," Archer explosively continued,"should you have thought—since I supposeyou're appealing to me on the ground of myrelationship to Madame Olenska—that I shouldtake a view contrary to the rest of her family?"

The change of expression in M. Riviere's facewas for a time his only answer. His look passedfrom timidity to absolute distress: for a youngman of his usually resourceful mien it wouldhave been difficult to appear more disarmedand defenceless. "Oh, Monsieur—"

"I can't imagine," Archer continued, "why youshould have come to me when there are othersso much nearer to the Countess; still less whyyou thought I should be more accessible to thearguments I suppose you were sent over with."

M. Riviere took this onslaught with a discon-certing humility. "The arguments I want to pre-sent to you, Monsieur, are my own and notthose I was sent over with."

"Then I see still less reason for listening tothem."

M. Riviere again looked into his hat, as if con-sidering whether these last words were not a

sufficiently broad hint to put it on and be gone.Then he spoke with sudden decision. "Mon-sieur—will you tell me one thing? Is it my rightto be here that you question? Or do you per-haps believe the whole matter to be alreadyclosed?"

His quiet insistence made Archer feel the clum-siness of his own bluster. M. Riviere had suc-ceeded in imposing himself: Archer, reddeningslightly, dropped into his chair again, andsigned to the young man to be seated.

"I beg your pardon: but why isn't the matterclosed?"

M. Riviere gazed back at him with anguish."You do, then, agree with the rest of the familythat, in face of the new proposals I havebrought, it is hardly possible for MadameOlenska not to return to her husband?"

"Good God!" Archer exclaimed; and his visitorgave out a low murmur of confirmation.

"Before seeing her, I saw—at Count Olenski'srequest—Mr. Lovell Mingott, with whom I hadseveral talks before going to Boston. I under-stand that he represents his mother's view; andthat Mrs. Manson Mingott's influence is greatthroughout her family."

Archer sat silent, with the sense of clinging tothe edge of a sliding precipice. The discoverythat he had been excluded from a share in thesenegotiations, and even from the knowledgethat they were on foot, caused him a surprisehardly dulled by the acuter wonder of what hewas learning. He saw in a flash that if the fam-ily had ceased to consult him it was becausesome deep tribal instinct warned them that hewas no longer on their side; and he recalled,with a start of comprehension, a remark ofMay's during their drive home from Mrs. Man-son Mingott's on the day of the Archery Meet-

ing: "Perhaps, after all, Ellen would be happierwith her husband."

Even in the tumult of new discoveries Archerremembered his indignant exclamation, andthe fact that since then his wife had nevernamed Madame Olenska to him. Her carelessallusion had no doubt been the straw held upto see which way the wind blew; the result hadbeen reported to the family, and thereafterArcher had been tacitly omitted from theircounsels. He admired the tribal disciplinewhich made May bow to this decision. Shewould not have done so, he knew, had her con-science protested; but she probably shared thefamily view that Madame Olenska would bebetter off as an unhappy wife than as a sepa-rated one, and that there was no use in discuss-ing the case with Newland, who had an awk-ward way of suddenly not seeming to take themost fundamental things for granted.

Archer looked up and met his visitor's anxiousgaze. "Don't you know, Monsieur—is it possi-ble you don't know—that the family begin todoubt if they have the right to advise theCountess to refuse her husband's last propos-als?"

"The proposals you brought?"

"The proposals I brought."

It was on Archer's lips to exclaim that whateverhe knew or did not know was no concern of M.Riviere's; but something in the humble and yetcourageous tenacity of M. Riviere's gaze madehim reject this conclusion, and he met theyoung man's question with another. "What isyour object in speaking to me of this?"

He had not to wait a moment for the answer."To beg you, Monsieur—to beg you with all theforce I'm capable of—not to let her go back.—Oh, don't let her!" M. Riviere exclaimed.

Archer looked at him with increasing aston-ishment. There was no mistaking the sincerityof his distress or the strength of his determina-tion: he had evidently resolved to let every-thing go by the board but the supreme need ofthus putting himself on record. Archer consid-ered.

"May I ask," he said at length, "if this is the lineyou took with the Countess Olenska?"

M. Riviere reddened, but his eyes did not falter."No, Monsieur: I accepted my mission in goodfaith. I really believed—for reasons I need nottrouble you with—that it would be better forMadame Olenska to recover her situation, herfortune, the social consideration that her hus-band's standing gives her."

"So I supposed: you could hardly have ac-cepted such a mission otherwise."

"I should not have accepted it."

"Well, then—?" Archer paused again, and theireyes met in another protracted scrutiny.

"Ah, Monsieur, after I had seen her, after I hadlistened to her, I knew she was better off here."

"You knew—?"

"Monsieur, I discharged my mission faithfully:I put the Count's arguments, I stated his offers,without adding any comment of my own. TheCountess was good enough to listen patiently;she carried her goodness so far as to see metwice; she considered impartially all I had cometo say. And it was in the course of these twotalks that I changed my mind, that I came to seethings differently."

"May I ask what led to this change?"

"Simply seeing the change in HER," M. Rivierereplied.

"The change in her? Then you knew her be-fore?"

The young man's colour again rose. "I used tosee her in her husband's house. I have knownCount Olenski for many years. You can imag-ine that he would not have sent a stranger onsuch a mission."

Archer's gaze, wandering away to the blankwalls of the office, rested on a hanging calendarsurmounted by the rugged features of thePresident of the United States. That such a con-versation should be going on anywhere withinthe millions of square miles subject to his ruleseemed as strange as anything that the imagi-nation could invent.

"The change—what sort of a change?"

"Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!" M. Rivierepaused. "Tenez—the discovery, I suppose, ofwhat I'd never thought of before: that she's an

American. And that if you're an American ofHER kind—of your kind—things that are ac-cepted in certain other societies, or at least putup with as part of a general convenient give-and-take—become unthinkable, simply un-thinkable. If Madame Olenska's relations un-derstood what these things were, their opposi-tion to her returning would no doubt be as un-conditional as her own; but they seem to regardher husband's wish to have her back as proof ofan irresistible longing for domestic life." M.Riviere paused, and then added: "Whereas it'sfar from being as simple as that."

Archer looked back to the President of theUnited States, and then down at his desk and atthe papers scattered on it. For a second or twohe could not trust himself to speak. During thisinterval he heard M. Riviere's chair pushedback, and was aware that the young man hadrisen. When he glanced up again he saw thathis visitor was as moved as himself.

"Thank you," Archer said simply.

"There's nothing to thank me for, Monsieur: it isI, rather—" M. Riviere broke off, as if speech forhim too were difficult. "I should like, though,"he continued in a firmer voice, "to add onething. You asked me if I was in Count Olenski'semploy. I am at this moment: I returned to him,a few months ago, for reasons of private neces-sity such as may happen to any one who haspersons, ill and older persons, dependent onhim. But from the moment that I have taken thestep of coming here to say these things to you Iconsider myself discharged, and I shall tell himso on my return, and give him the reasons.That's all, Monsieur."

M. Riviere bowed and drew back a step.

"Thank you," Archer said again, as their handsmet.

XXVI.

Every year on the fifteenth of October FifthAvenue opened its shutters, unrolled its carpetsand hung up its triple layer of window-curtains.

By the first of November this household ritualwas over, and society had begun to look aboutand take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the sea-son was in full blast, Opera and theatres wereputting forth their new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates fordances being fixed. And punctually at aboutthis time Mrs. Archer always said that NewYork was very much changed.

Observing it from the lofty stand-point of anon-participant, she was able, with the help ofMr. Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to traceeach new crack in its surface, and all thestrange weeds pushing up between the ordered

rows of social vegetables. It had been one of theamusements of Archer's youth to wait for thisannual pronouncement of his mother's, and tohear her enumerate the minute signs of disinte-gration that his careless gaze had overlooked.For New York, to Mrs. Archer's mind, neverchanged without changing for the worse; andin this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily con-curred.

Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of theworld, suspended his judgment and listenedwith an amused impartiality to the lamenta-tions of the ladies. But even he never deniedthat New York had changed; and NewlandArcher, in the winter of the second year of hismarriage, was himself obliged to admit that if ithad not actually changed it was certainlychanging.

These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs.Archer's Thanksgiving dinner. At the datewhen she was officially enjoined to give thanks

for the blessings of the year it was her habit totake a mournful though not embittered stock ofher world, and wonder what there was to bethankful for. At any rate, not the state of soci-ety; society, if it could be said to exist, wasrather a spectacle on which to call down Bibli-cal imprecations—and in fact, every one knewwhat the Reverend Dr. Ashmore meant whenhe chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse25) for his Thanksgiving sermon. Dr. Ashmore,the new Rector of St. Matthew's, had been cho-sen because he was very "advanced": his ser-mons were considered bold in thought andnovel in language. When he fulminated againstfashionable society he always spoke of its"trend"; and to Mrs. Archer it was terrifyingand yet fascinating to feel herself part of acommunity that was trending.

"There's no doubt that Dr. Ashmore is right:there IS a marked trend," she said, as if it were

something visible and measurable, like a crackin a house.

"It was odd, though, to preach about it onThanksgiving," Miss Jackson opined; and herhostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to givethanks for what's left."

Archer had been wont to smile at these annualvaticinations of his mother's; but this year evenhe was obliged to acknowledge, as he listenedto an enumeration of the changes, that the"trend" was visible.

"The extravagance in dress—" Miss Jacksonbegan. "Sillerton took me to the first night ofthe Opera, and I can only tell you that JaneMerry's dress was the only one I recognisedfrom last year; and even that had had the frontpanel changed. Yet I know she got it out fromWorth only two years ago, because my seam-stress always goes in to make over her Parisdresses before she wears them."

"Ah, Jane Merry is one of US," said Mrs. Archersighing, as if it were not such an enviable thingto be in an age when ladies were beginning toflaunt abroad their Paris dresses as soon as theywere out of the Custom House, instead of let-ting them mellow under lock and key, in themanner of Mrs. Archer's contemporaries.

"Yes; she's one of the few. In my youth," MissJackson rejoined, "it was considered vulgar todress in the newest fashions; and Amy Sillertonhas always told me that in Boston the rule wasto put away one's Paris dresses for two years.Old Mrs. Baxter Pennilow, who did everythinghandsomely, used to import twelve a year, twovelvet, two satin, two silk, and the other six ofpoplin and the finest cashmere. It was a stand-ing order, and as she was ill for two years be-fore she died they found forty-eight Worthdresses that had never been taken out of tissuepaper; and when the girls left off their mourn-ing they were able to wear the first lot at the

Symphony concerts without looking in advanceof the fashion."

"Ah, well, Boston is more conservative thanNew York; but I always think it's a safe rule fora lady to lay aside her French dresses for oneseason," Mrs. Archer conceded.

"It was Beaufort who started the new fashionby making his wife clap her new clothes on herback as soon as they arrived: I must say attimes it takes all Regina's distinction not to looklike ... like ..." Miss Jackson glanced around thetable, caught Janey's bulging gaze, and tookrefuge in an unintelligible murmur.

"Like her rivals," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson,with the air of producing an epigram.

"Oh,—" the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archeradded, partly to distract her daughter's atten-tion from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! HerThanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one,

I'm afraid. Have you heard the rumours aboutBeaufort's speculations, Sillerton?"

Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one hadheard the rumours in question, and he scornedto confirm a tale that was already commonproperty.

A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No onereally liked Beaufort, and it was not whollyunpleasant to think the worst of his private life;but the idea of his having brought financialdishonour on his wife's family was too shock-ing to be enjoyed even by his enemies. Archer'sNew York tolerated hypocrisy in private rela-tions; but in business matters it exacted a lim-pid and impeccable honesty. It was a long timesince any well-known banker had failed dis-creditably; but every one remembered the so-cial extinction visited on the heads of the firmwhen the last event of the kind had happened.It would be the same with the Beauforts, inspite of his power and her popularity; not all

the leagued strength of the Dallas connectionwould save poor Regina if there were any truthin the reports of her husband's unlawful specu-lations.

The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; buteverything they touched on seemed to confirmMrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend.

"Of course, Newland, I know you let dear Maygo to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings—" shebegan; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, youknow, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now;and she was invited to Granny's last reception."

It was thus, Archer reflected, that New Yorkmanaged its transitions: conspiring to ignorethem till they were well over, and then, in allgood faith, imagining that they had taken placein a preceding age. There was always a traitorin the citadel; and after he (or generally she)had surrendered the keys, what was the use ofpretending that it was impregnable? Once peo-

ple had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sundayhospitality they were not likely to sit at homeremembering that her champagne was trans-muted Shoe-Polish.

"I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed."Such things have to be, I suppose, as long asAMUSEMENT is what people go out for; butI've never quite forgiven your cousin MadameOlenska for being the first person to counte-nance Mrs. Struthers."

A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer'sface; it surprised her husband as much as theother guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN—"she murmured, much in the same accusing andyet deprecating tone in which her parentsmight have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS—."

It was the note which the family had taken tosounding on the mention of the Countess Olen-ska's name, since she had surprised and incon-venienced them by remaining obdurate to her

husband's advances; but on May's lips it gavefood for thought, and Archer looked at herwith the sense of strangeness that sometimescame over him when she was most in the toneof her environment.

His mother, with less than her usual sensitive-ness to atmosphere, still insisted: "I've alwaysthought that people like the Countess Olenska,who have lived in aristocratic societies, oughtto help us to keep up our social distinctions,instead of ignoring them."

May's blush remained permanently vivid: itseemed to have a significance beyond that im-plied by the recognition of Madame Olenska'ssocial bad faith.

"I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners,"said Miss Jackson tartly.

"I don't think Ellen cares for society; but no-body knows exactly what she does care for,"

May continued, as if she had been groping forsomething noncommittal.

"Ah, well—" Mrs. Archer sighed again.

Everybody knew that the Countess Olenskawas no longer in the good graces of her family.Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. MansonMingott, had been unable to defend her refusalto return to her husband. The Mingotts had notproclaimed their disapproval aloud: their senseof solidarity was too strong. They had simply,as Mrs. Welland said, "let poor Ellen find herown level"—and that, mortifyingly and incom-prehensibly, was in the dim depths where theBlenkers prevailed, and "people who wrote"celebrated their untidy rites. It was incredible,but it was a fact, that Ellen, in spite of all heropportunities and her privileges, had becomesimply "Bohemian." The fact enforced the con-tention that she had made a fatal mistake in notreturning to Count Olenski. After all, a youngwoman's place was under her husband's roof,

especially when she had left it in circumstancesthat ... well ... if one had cared to look into them...

"Madame Olenska is a great favourite with thegentlemen," said Miss Sophy, with her air ofwishing to put forth something conciliatorywhen she knew that she was planting a dart.

"Ah, that's the danger that a young woman likeMadame Olenska is always exposed to," Mrs.Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, onthis conclusion, gathered up their trains to seekthe carcel globes of the drawing-room, whileArcher and Mr. Sillerton Jackson withdrew tothe Gothic library.

Once established before the grate, and consol-ing himself for the inadequacy of the dinner bythe perfection of his cigar, Mr. Jackson becameportentous and communicable.

"If the Beaufort smash comes," he announced,"there are going to be disclosures."

Archer raised his head quickly: he could neverhear the name without the sharp vision ofBeaufort's heavy figure, opulently furred andshod, advancing through the snow at Skuyter-cliff.

"There's bound to be," Mr. Jackson continued,"the nastiest kind of a cleaning up. He hasn'tspent all his money on Regina."

"Oh, well—that's discounted, isn't it? My beliefis he'll pull out yet," said the young man, want-ing to change the subject.

"Perhaps—perhaps. I know he was to see someof the influential people today. Of course," Mr.Jackson reluctantly conceded, "it's to be hopedthey can tide him over—this time anyhow. Ishouldn't like to think of poor Regina's spend-

ing the rest of her life in some shabby foreignwatering-place for bankrupts."

Archer said nothing. It seemed to him so natu-ral—however tragic—that money ill-gottenshould be cruelly expiated, that his mind,hardly lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom,wandered back to closer questions. What wasthe meaning of May's blush when the CountessOlenska had been mentioned?

Four months had passed since the midsummerday that he and Madame Olenska had spenttogether; and since then he had not seen her.He knew that she had returned to Washington,to the little house which she and Medora Man-son had taken there: he had written to heronce—a few words, asking when they were tomeet again—and she had even more brieflyreplied: "Not yet."

Since then there had been no farther communi-cation between them, and he had built up

within himself a kind of sanctuary in which shethroned among his secret thoughts and long-ings. Little by little it became the scene of hisreal life, of his only rational activities; thither hebrought the books he read, the ideas and feel-ings which nourished him, his judgments andhis visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actuallife, he moved with a growing sense of unreal-ity and insufficiency, blundering against famil-iar prejudices and traditional points of view asan absent-minded man goes on bumping intothe furniture of his own room. Absent—thatwas what he was: so absent from everythingmost densely real and near to those about himthat it sometimes startled him to find they stillimagined he was there.

He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearinghis throat preparatory to farther revelations.

"I don't know, of course, how far your wife'sfamily are aware of what people say about—

well, about Madame Olenska's refusal to accepther husband's latest offer."

Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquelycontinued: "It's a pity—it's certainly a pity—that she refused it."

"A pity? In God's name, why?"

Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the un-wrinkled sock that joined it to a glossy pump.

"Well—to put it on the lowest ground—what'sshe going to live on now?"

"Now—?"

"If Beaufort—"

Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on theblack walnut-edge of the writing-table. Thewells of the brass double-inkstand danced intheir sockets.

"What the devil do you mean, sir?"

Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in hischair, turned a tranquil gaze on the youngman's burning face.

"Well—I have it on pretty good authority—infact, on old Catherine's herself—that the familyreduced Countess Olenska's allowance consid-erably when she definitely refused to go backto her husband; and as, by this refusal, she alsoforfeits the money settled on her when shemarried—which Olenski was ready to makeover to her if she returned—why, what thedevil do YOU mean, my dear boy, by askingme what I mean?" Mr. Jackson good-humouredly retorted.

Archer moved toward the mantelpiece andbent over to knock his ashes into the grate.

"I don't know anything of Madame Olenska'sprivate affairs; but I don't need to, to be certainthat what you insinuate—"

"Oh, I don't: it's Lefferts, for one," Mr. Jacksoninterposed.

"Lefferts—who made love to her and gotsnubbed for it!" Archer broke out contemptu-ously.

"Ah—DID he?" snapped the other, as if thiswere exactly the fact he had been laying a trapfor. He still sat sideways from the fire, so thathis hard old gaze held Archer's face as if in aspring of steel.

"Well, well: it's a pity she didn't go back beforeBeaufort's cropper," he repeated. "If she goesNOW, and if he fails, it will only confirm thegeneral impression: which isn't by any meanspeculiar to Lefferts, by the way."

"Oh, she won't go back now: less than ever!"Archer had no sooner said it than he had oncemore the feeling that it was exactly what Mr.Jackson had been waiting for.

The old gentleman considered him attentively."That's your opinion, eh? Well, no doubt youknow. But everybody will tell you that the fewpennies Medora Manson has left are all inBeaufort's hands; and how the two women areto keep their heads above water unless he does,I can't imagine. Of course, Madame Olenskamay still soften old Catherine, who's been themost inexorably opposed to her staying; andold Catherine could make her any allowanceshe chooses. But we all know that she hatesparting with good money; and the rest of thefamily have no particular interest in keepingMadame Olenska here."

Archer was burning with unavailing wrath: hewas exactly in the state when a man is sure to

do something stupid, knowing all the whilethat he is doing it.

He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantlystruck by the fact that Madame Olenska's dif-ferences with her grandmother and her otherrelations were not known to him, and that theold gentleman had drawn his own conclusionsas to the reasons for Archer's exclusion fromthe family councils. This fact warned Archer togo warily; but the insinuations about Beaufortmade him reckless. He was mindful, however,if not of his own danger, at least of the fact thatMr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, andconsequently his guest. Old New York scrupu-lously observed the etiquette of hospitality, andno discussion with a guest was ever allowed todegenerate into a disagreement.

"Shall we go up and join my mother?" he sug-gested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashesdropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow.

On the drive homeward May remained oddlysilent; through the darkness, he still felt herenveloped in her menacing blush. What itsmenace meant he could not guess: but he wassufficiently warned by the fact that MadameOlenska's name had evoked it.

They went upstairs, and he turned into the li-brary. She usually followed him; but he heardher passing down the passage to her bedroom.

"May!" he called out impatiently; and she cameback, with a slight glance of surprise at histone.

"This lamp is smoking again; I should think theservants might see that it's kept properlytrimmed," he grumbled nervously.

"I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she an-swered, in the firm bright tone she had learnedfrom her mother; and it exasperated Archer tofeel that she was already beginning to humour

him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent overto lower the wick, and as the light struck up onher white shoulders and the clear curves of herface he thought: "How young she is! For whatendless years this life will have to go on!"

He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strongyouth and the bounding blood in his veins."Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have togo to Washington for a few days—soon; nextweek perhaps."

Her hand remained on the key of the lamp asshe turned to him slowly. The heat from itsflame had brought back a glow to her face, butit paled as she looked up.

"On business?" she asked, in a tone which im-plied that there could be no other conceivablereason, and that she had put the questionautomatically, as if merely to finish his ownsentence.

"On business, naturally. There's a patent casecoming up before the Supreme Court—" Hegave the name of the inventor, and went onfurnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts'spractised glibness, while she listened atten-tively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see."

"The change will do you good," she said sim-ply, when he had finished; "and you must besure to go and see Ellen," she added, lookinghim straight in the eyes with her cloudlesssmile, and speaking in the tone she might haveemployed in urging him not to neglect someirksome family duty.

It was the only word that passed between themon the subject; but in the code in which theyhad both been trained it meant: "Of course youunderstand that I know all that people havebeen saying about Ellen, and heartily sympa-thise with my family in their effort to get her toreturn to her husband. I also know that, forsome reason you have not chosen to tell me,

you have advised her against this course,which all the older men of the family, as well asour grandmother, agree in approving; and thatit is owing to your encouragement that Ellendefies us all, and exposes herself to the kind ofcriticism of which Mr. Sillerton Jackson proba-bly gave you, this evening, the hint that hasmade you so irritable.... Hints have indeed notbeen wanting; but since you appear unwillingto take them from others, I offer you this onemyself, in the only form in which well-bredpeople of our kind can communicate unpleas-ant things to each other: by letting you under-stand that I know you mean to see Ellen whenyou are in Washington, and are perhaps goingthere expressly for that purpose; and that, sinceyou are sure to see her, I wish you to do so withmy full and explicit approval—and to take theopportunity of letting her know what thecourse of conduct you have encouraged her inis likely to lead to."

Her hand was still on the key of the lamp whenthe last word of this mute message reachedhim. She turned the wick down, lifted off theglobe, and breathed on the sulky flame.

"They smell less if one blows them out," sheexplained, with her bright housekeeping air.On the threshold she turned and paused for hiskiss.

XXVII.

Wall Street, the next day, had more reassuringreports of Beaufort's situation. They were notdefinite, but they were hopeful. It was gener-ally understood that he could call on powerfulinfluences in case of emergency, and that hehad done so with success; and that evening,when Mrs. Beaufort appeared at the Opera

wearing her old smile and a new emerald neck-lace, society drew a breath of relief.

New York was inexorable in its condemnationof business irregularities. So far there had beenno exception to its tacit rule that those whobroke the law of probity must pay; and everyone was aware that even Beaufort and Beau-fort's wife would be offered up unflinchingly tothis principle. But to be obliged to offer themup would be not only painful but inconvenient.The disappearance of the Beauforts wouldleave a considerable void in their compact littlecircle; and those who were too ignorant or toocareless to shudder at the moral catastrophebewailed in advance the loss of the best ball-room in New York.

Archer had definitely made up his mind to goto Washington. He was waiting only for theopening of the law-suit of which he had spokento May, so that its date might coincide with thatof his visit; but on the following Tuesday he

learned from Mr. Letterblair that the case mightbe postponed for several weeks. Nevertheless,he went home that afternoon determined inany event to leave the next evening. Thechances were that May, who knew nothing ofhis professional life, and had never shown anyinterest in it, would not learn of the postpone-ment, should it take place, nor remember thenames of the litigants if they were mentionedbefore her; and at any rate he could no longerput off seeing Madame Olenska. There weretoo many things that he must say to her.

On the Wednesday morning, when he reachedhis office, Mr. Letterblair met him with a trou-bled face. Beaufort, after all, had not managedto "tide over"; but by setting afloat the rumourthat he had done so he had reassured his de-positors, and heavy payments had poured intothe bank till the previous evening, when dis-turbing reports again began to predominate. Inconsequence, a run on the bank had begun, and

its doors were likely to close before the day wasover. The ugliest things were being said ofBeaufort's dastardly manoeuvre, and his failurepromised to be one of the most discreditable inthe history of Wall Street.

The extent of the calamity left Mr. Letterblairwhite and incapacitated. "I've seen bad thingsin my time; but nothing as bad as this. Every-body we know will be hit, one way or another.And what will be done about Mrs. Beaufort?What CAN be done about her? I pity Mrs.Manson Mingott as much as anybody: comingat her age, there's no knowing what effect thisaffair may have on her. She always believed inBeaufort—she made a friend of him! Andthere's the whole Dallas connection: poor Mrs.Beaufort is related to every one of you. Heronly chance would be to leave her husband—yet how can any one tell her so? Her duty is athis side; and luckily she seems always to havebeen blind to his private weaknesses."

There was a knock, and Mr. Letterblair turnedhis head sharply. "What is it? I can't be dis-turbed."

A clerk brought in a letter for Archer and with-drew. Recognising his wife's hand, the youngman opened the envelope and read: "Won't youplease come up town as early as you can?Granny had a slight stroke last night. In somemysterious way she found out before any oneelse this awful news about the bank. UncleLovell is away shooting, and the idea of thedisgrace has made poor Papa so nervous thathe has a temperature and can't leave his room.Mamma needs you dreadfully, and I do hopeyou can get away at once and go straight toGranny's."

Archer handed the note to his senior partner,and a few minutes later was crawling north-ward in a crowded horse-car, which he ex-changed at Fourteenth Street for one of the highstaggering omnibuses of the Fifth Avenue line.

It was after twelve o'clock when this laboriousvehicle dropped him at old Catherine's. Thesitting-room window on the ground floor,where she usually throned, was tenanted by theinadequate figure of her daughter, Mrs. Wel-land, who signed a haggard welcome as shecaught sight of Archer; and at the door he wasmet by May. The hall wore the unnatural ap-pearance peculiar to well-kept houses suddenlyinvaded by illness: wraps and furs lay in heapson the chairs, a doctor's bag and overcoat wereon the table, and beside them letters and cardshad already piled up unheeded.

May looked pale but smiling: Dr. Bencomb,who had just come for the second time, took amore hopeful view, and Mrs. Mingott's daunt-less determination to live and get well was al-ready having an effect on her family. May ledArcher into the old lady's sitting-room, wherethe sliding doors opening into the bedroom hadbeen drawn shut, and the heavy yellow damask

portieres dropped over them; and here Mrs.Welland communicated to him in horrifiedundertones the details of the catastrophe. Itappeared that the evening before somethingdreadful and mysterious had happened. Atabout eight o'clock, just after Mrs. Mingott hadfinished the game of solitaire that she alwaysplayed after dinner, the door-bell had rung,and a lady so thickly veiled that the servantsdid not immediately recognise her had asked tobe received.

The butler, hearing a familiar voice, hadthrown open the sitting-room door, announc-ing: "Mrs. Julius Beaufort"—and had thenclosed it again on the two ladies. They musthave been together, he thought, about an hour.When Mrs. Mingott's bell rang Mrs. Beauforthad already slipped away unseen, and the oldlady, white and vast and terrible, sat alone inher great chair, and signed to the butler to helpher into her room. She seemed, at that time,

though obviously distressed, in complete con-trol of her body and brain. The mulatto maidput her to bed, brought her a cup of tea asusual, laid everything straight in the room, andwent away; but at three in the morning the bellrang again, and the two servants, hastening inat this unwonted summons (for old Catherineusually slept like a baby), had found their mis-tress sitting up against her pillows with acrooked smile on her face and one little handhanging limp from its huge arm.

The stroke had clearly been a slight one, for shewas able to articulate and to make her wishesknown; and soon after the doctor's first visitshe had begun to regain control of her facialmuscles. But the alarm had been great; andproportionately great was the indignationwhen it was gathered from Mrs. Mingott'sfragmentary phrases that Regina Beaufort hadcome to ask her—incredible effrontery!—toback up her husband, see them through—not to

"desert" them, as she called it—in fact to inducethe whole family to cover and condone theirmonstrous dishonour.

"I said to her: 'Honour's always been honour,and honesty honesty, in Manson Mingott'shouse, and will be till I'm carried out of it feetfirst,'" the old woman had stammered into herdaughter's ear, in the thick voice of the partlyparalysed. "And when she said: 'But my name,Auntie—my name's Regina Dallas,' I said: 'Itwas Beaufort when he covered you with jewels,and it's got to stay Beaufort now that he's cov-ered you with shame.'"

So much, with tears and gasps of horror, Mrs.Welland imparted, blanched and demolishedby the unwonted obligation of having at last tofix her eyes on the unpleasant and the discred-itable. "If only I could keep it from your father-in-law: he always says: 'Augusta, for pity'ssake, don't destroy my last illusions'—and how

am I to prevent his knowing these horrors?" thepoor lady wailed.

"After all, Mamma, he won't have SEEN them,"her daughter suggested; and Mrs. Wellandsighed: "Ah, no; thank heaven he's safe in bed.And Dr. Bencomb has promised to keep himthere till poor Mamma is better, and Regina hasbeen got away somewhere."

Archer had seated himself near the windowand was gazing out blankly at the desertedthoroughfare. It was evident that he had beensummoned rather for the moral support of thestricken ladies than because of any specific aidthat he could render. Mr. Lovell Mingott hadbeen telegraphed for, and messages were beingdespatched by hand to the members of the fam-ily living in New York; and meanwhile therewas nothing to do but to discuss in hushedtones the consequences of Beaufort's dishonourand of his wife's unjustifiable action.

Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who had been in anotherroom writing notes, presently reappeared, andadded her voice to the discussion. In THEIRday, the elder ladies agreed, the wife of a manwho had done anything disgraceful in businesshad only one idea: to efface herself, to disap-pear with him. "There was the case of poorGrandmamma Spicer; your great-grandmother,May. Of course," Mrs. Welland hastened toadd, "your great-grandfather's money difficul-ties were private—losses at cards, or signing anote for somebody—I never quite knew, be-cause Mamma would never speak of it. But shewas brought up in the country because hermother had to leave New York after the dis-grace, whatever it was: they lived up the Hud-son alone, winter and summer, till Mamma wassixteen. It would never have occurred toGrandmamma Spicer to ask the family to 'coun-tenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it;though a private disgrace is nothing compared

to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocentpeople."

"Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina tohide her own countenance than to talk aboutother people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "Iunderstand that the emerald necklace she woreat the Opera last Friday had been sent on ap-proval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. Iwonder if they'll ever get it back?"

Archer listened unmoved to the relentless cho-rus. The idea of absolute financial probity asthe first law of a gentleman's code was toodeeply ingrained in him for sentimental con-siderations to weaken it. An adventurer likeLemuel Struthers might build up the millionsof his Shoe Polish on any number of shadydealings; but unblemished honesty was thenoblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nordid Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer.He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than herindignant relatives; but it seemed to him that

the tie between husband and wife, even ifbreakable in prosperity, should be indissolublein misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, awife's place was at her husband's side when hewas in trouble; but society's place was not at hisside, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption thatit was seemed almost to make her his accom-plice. The mere idea of a woman's appealing toher family to screen her husband's businessdishonour was inadmissible, since it was theone thing that the Family, as an institution,could not do.

The mulatto maid called Mrs. Lovell Mingottinto the hall, and the latter came back in a mo-ment with a frowning brow.

"She wants me to telegraph for Ellen Olenska. Ihad written to Ellen, of course, and to Medora;but now it seems that's not enough. I'm to tele-graph to her immediately, and to tell her thatshe's to come alone."

The announcement was received in silence.Mrs. Welland sighed resignedly, and May rosefrom her seat and went to gather up somenewspapers that had been scattered on thefloor.

"I suppose it must be done," Mrs. Lovell Min-gott continued, as if hoping to be contradicted;and May turned back toward the middle of theroom.

"Of course it must be done," she said. "Grannyknows what she wants, and we must carry outall her wishes. Shall I write the telegram foryou, Auntie? If it goes at once Ellen can proba-bly catch tomorrow morning's train." She pro-nounced the syllables of the name with a pecu-liar clearness, as if she had tapped on two silverbells.

"Well, it can't go at once. Jasper and the pantry-boy are both out with notes and telegrams."

May turned to her husband with a smile. "Buthere's Newland, ready to do anything. Will youtake the telegram, Newland? There'll be justtime before luncheon."

Archer rose with a murmur of readiness, andshe seated herself at old Catherine's rosewood"Bonheur du Jour," and wrote out the messagein her large immature hand. When it was writ-ten she blotted it neatly and handed it toArcher.

"What a pity," she said, "that you and Ellen willcross each other on the way!—Newland," sheadded, turning to her mother and aunt, "isobliged to go to Washington about a patentlaw-suit that is coming up before the SupremeCourt. I suppose Uncle Lovell will be back bytomorrow night, and with Granny improvingso much it doesn't seem right to ask Newlandto give up an important engagement for thefirm—does it?"

She paused, as if for an answer, and Mrs. Wel-land hastily declared: "Oh, of course not, dar-ling. Your Granny would be the last person towish it." As Archer left the room with the tele-gram, he heard his mother-in-law add, pre-sumably to Mrs. Lovell Mingott: "But why onearth she should make you telegraph for EllenOlenska—" and May's clear voice rejoin: "Per-haps it's to urge on her again that after all herduty is with her husband."

The outer door closed on Archer and he walkedhastily away toward the telegraph office.

XXVIII.

"Ol-ol—howjer spell it, anyhow?" asked the tartyoung lady to whom Archer had pushed hiswife's telegram across the brass ledge of theWestern Union office.

"Olenska—O-len-ska," he repeated, drawingback the message in order to print out the for-eign syllables above May's rambling script.

"It's an unlikely name for a New York telegraphoffice; at least in this quarter," an unexpectedvoice observed; and turning around Archersaw Lawrence Lefferts at his elbow, pulling animperturbable moustache and affecting not toglance at the message.

"Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here.I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; andas I was on my way to the house I saw youturning down this street and nipped after you. Isuppose you've come from there?"

Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram underthe lattice.

"Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring tothe family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, ifyou're including Countess Olenska."

Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulseto dash his fist into the long vain handsomeface at his side.

"Why?" he questioned.

Lefferts, who was known to shrink from dis-cussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironicgrimace that warned the other of the watchingdamsel behind the lattice. Nothing could beworse "form" the look reminded Archer, thanany display of temper in a public place.

Archer had never been more indifferent to therequirements of form; but his impulse to doLawrence Lefferts a physical injury was onlymomentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olen-ska's name with him at such a time, and onwhatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. Hepaid for his telegram, and the two young menwent out together into the street. There Archer,having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs.Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no

anxiety whatever"; and Lefferts, with profuseexpressions of relief, asked him if he had heardthat there were beastly bad rumours againabout Beaufort....

That afternoon the announcement of the Beau-fort failure was in all the papers. It overshad-owed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott'sstroke, and only the few who had heard of themysterious connection between the two eventsthought of ascribing old Catherine's illness toanything but the accumulation of flesh andyears.

The whole of New York was darkened by thetale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never,as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in hismemory, nor, for that matter, in the memory ofthe far-off Letterblair who had given his nameto the firm. The bank had continued to take inmoney for a whole day after its failure was in-evitable; and as many of its clients belonged toone or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's

duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beau-fort had not taken the tone that such misfor-tunes (the word was her own) were "the test offriendship," compassion for her might havetempered the general indignation against herhusband. As it was—and especially after theobject of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. MansonMingott had become known—her cynicism washeld to exceed his; and she had not the ex-cuse—nor her detractors the satisfaction—ofpleading that she was "a foreigner." It wassome comfort (to those whose securities werenot in jeopardy) to be able to remind them-selves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dal-las of South Carolina took his view of the case,and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feetagain," the argument lost its edge, and therewas nothing to do but to accept this awful evi-dence of the indissolubility of marriage. Societymust manage to get on without the Beauforts,and there was an end of it—except indeed forsuch hapless victims of the disaster as Medora

Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and cer-tain other misguided ladies of good familywho, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry vander Luyden ...

"The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs.Archer, summing it up as if she were pro-nouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a courseof treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's littleplace in North Carolina. Beaufort has alwayskept a racing stable, and he had better breedtrotting horses. I should say he had all thequalities of a successful horsedealer." Every oneagreed with her, but no one condescended toenquire what the Beauforts really meant to do.

The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was muchbetter: she recovered her voice sufficiently togive orders that no one should mention theBeauforts to her again, and asked—when Dr.Bencomb appeared—what in the world herfamily meant by making such a fuss about herhealth.

"If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad inthe evening what are they to expect?" she en-quired; and, the doctor having opportunelymodified her dietary, the stroke was trans-formed into an attack of indigestion. But inspite of her firm tone old Catherine did notwholly recover her former attitude toward life.The growing remoteness of old age, though ithad not diminished her curiosity about herneighbours, had blunted her never very livelycompassion for their troubles; and she seemedto have no difficulty in putting the Beaufortdisaster out of her mind. But for the first timeshe became absorbed in her own symptoms,and began to take a sentimental interest in cer-tain members of her family to whom she hadhitherto been contemptuously indifferent.

Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege ofattracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he wasthe one she had most consistently ignored; andall his wife's efforts to represent him as a man

of forceful character and marked intellectualability (if he had only "chosen") had been metwith a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as avaletudinarian now made him an object of en-grossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued animperial summons to him to come and com-pare diets as soon as his temperature permit-ted; for old Catherine was now the first to rec-ognise that one could not be too careful abouttemperatures.

Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska'ssummons a telegram announced that shewould arrive from Washington on the eveningof the following day. At the Wellands', wherethe Newland Archers chanced to be lunching,the question as to who should meet her at Jer-sey City was immediately raised; and the mate-rial difficulties amid which the Welland house-hold struggled as if it had been a frontier out-post, lent animation to the debate. It wasagreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go

to Jersey City because she was to accompanyher husband to old Catherine's that afternoon,and the brougham could not be spared, since, ifMr. Welland were "upset" by seeing hismother-in-law for the first time after her attack,he might have to be taken home at a moment'snotice. The Welland sons would of course be"down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be justhurrying back from his shooting, and the Min-gott carriage engaged in meeting him; and onecould not ask May, at the close of a winter af-ternoon, to go alone across the ferry to JerseyCity, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, itmight appear inhospitable—and contrary toold Catherine's express wishes—if MadameOlenska were allowed to arrive without any ofthe family being at the station to receive her. Itwas just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voiceimplied, to place the family in such a dilemma."It's always one thing after another," the poorlady grieved, in one of her rare revolts againstfate; "the only thing that makes me think

Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencombwill admit is this morbid desire to have Ellencome at once, however inconvenient it is tomeet her."

The words had been thoughtless, as the utter-ances of impatience often are; and Mr. Wellandwas upon them with a pounce.

"Augusta," he said, turning pale and layingdown his fork, "have you any other reason forthinking that Bencomb is less to be relied onthan he was? Have you noticed that he hasbeen less conscientious than usual in followingup my case or your mother's?"

It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as theendless consequences of her blunder unrolledthemselves before her; but she managed tolaugh, and take a second helping of scallopedoysters, before she said, struggling back intoher old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, howcould you imagine such a thing? I only meant

that, after the decided stand Mamma tookabout its being Ellen's duty to go back to herhusband, it seems strange that she should beseized with this sudden whim to see her, whenthere are half a dozen other grandchildren thatshe might have asked for. But we must neverforget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderfulvitality, is a very old woman."

Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and itwas evident that his perturbed imagination hadfastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: yourmother's a very old woman; and for all weknow Bencomb may not be as successful withvery old people. As you say, my dear, it's al-ways one thing after another; and in anotherten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have thepleasing duty of looking about for a new doc-tor. It's always better to make such a changebefore it's absolutely necessary." And havingarrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Wellandfirmly took up his fork.

"But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again,as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led theway into the wilderness of purple satin andmalachite known as the back drawing-room, "Idon't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrowevening; and I do like to have things settled forat least twenty-four hours ahead."

Archer turned from the fascinated contempla-tion of a small painting representing two Car-dinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frameset with medallions of onyx.

"Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easilyget away from the office in time to meet thebrougham at the ferry, if May will send itthere." His heart was beating excitedly as hespoke.

Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, andMay, who had moved away to the window,turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "Soyou see, Mamma, everything WILL be settled

twenty-four hours in advance," she said, stoop-ing over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead.

May's brougham awaited her at the door, andshe was to drive Archer to Union Square,where he could pick up a Broadway car tocarry him to the office. As she settled herself inher corner she said: "I didn't want to worryMamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how canyou meet Ellen tomorrow, and bring her backto New York, when you're going to Washing-ton?"

"Oh, I'm not going," Archer answered.

"Not going? Why, what's happened?" Her voicewas as clear as a bell, and full of wifely solici-tude.

"The case is off—postponed."

"Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morn-ing from Mr. Letterblair to Mamma saying that

he was going to Washington tomorrow for thebig patent case that he was to argue before theSupreme Court. You said it was a patent case,didn't you?"

"Well—that's it: the whole office can't go. Let-terblair decided to go this morning."

"Then it's NOT postponed?" she continued,with an insistence so unlike her that he felt theblood rising to his face, as if he were blushingfor her unwonted lapse from all the traditionaldelicacies.

"No: but my going is," he answered, cursing theunnecessary explanations that he had givenwhen he had announced his intention of goingto Washington, and wondering where he hadread that clever liars give details, but that thecleverest do not. It did not hurt him half asmuch to tell May an untruth as to see her tryingto pretend that she had not detected him.

"I'm not going till later on: luckily for the con-venience of your family," he continued, takingbase refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke he felt thatshe was looking at him, and he turned his eyesto hers in order not to appear to be avoidingthem. Their glances met for a second, and per-haps let them into each other's meanings moredeeply than either cared to go.

"Yes; it IS awfully convenient," May brightlyagreed, "that you should be able to meet Ellenafter all; you saw how much Mamma appreci-ated your offering to do it."

"Oh, I'm delighted to do it." The carriagestopped, and as he jumped out she leaned tohim and laid her hand on his. "Good-bye, dear-est," she said, her eyes so blue that he won-dered afterward if they had shone on himthrough tears.

He turned away and hurried across UnionSquare, repeating to himself, in a sort of inward

chant: "It's all of two hours from Jersey City toold Catherine's. It's all of two hours—and itmay be more."

XXIX.

His wife's dark blue brougham (with the wed-ding varnish still on it) met Archer at the ferry,and conveyed him luxuriously to the Pennsyl-vania terminus in Jersey City.

It was a sombre snowy afternoon, and the gas-lamps were lit in the big reverberating station.As he paced the platform, waiting for theWashington express, he remembered that therewere people who thought there would one daybe a tunnel under the Hudson through whichthe trains of the Pennsylvania railway wouldrun straight into New York. They were of thebrotherhood of visionaries who likewise pre-

dicted the building of ships that would crossthe Atlantic in five days, the invention of a fly-ing machine, lighting by electricity, telephoniccommunication without wires, and other Ara-bian Night marvels.

"I don't care which of their visions comes true,"Archer mused, "as long as the tunnel isn't builtyet." In his senseless school-boy happiness hepictured Madame Olenska's descent from thetrain, his discovery of her a long way off,among the throngs of meaningless faces, herclinging to his arm as he guided her to the car-riage, their slow approach to the wharf amongslipping horses, laden carts, vociferating team-sters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat, where they would sit side by side underthe snow, in the motionless carriage, while theearth seemed to glide away under them, rollingto the other side of the sun. It was incredible,the number of things he had to say to her, and

in what eloquent order they were formingthemselves on his lips ...

The clanging and groaning of the train camenearer, and it staggered slowly into the stationlike a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archerpushed forward, elbowing through the crowd,and staring blindly into window after windowof the high-hung carriages. And then, sud-denly, he saw Madame Olenska's pale and sur-prised face close at hand, and had again themortified sensation of having forgotten whatshe looked like.

They reached each other, their hands met, andhe drew her arm through his. "This way—Ihave the carriage," he said.

After that it all happened as he had dreamed.He helped her into the brougham with herbags, and had afterward the vague recollectionof having properly reassured her about hergrandmother and given her a summary of the

Beaufort situation (he was struck by the soft-ness of her: "Poor Regina!"). Meanwhile thecarriage had worked its way out of the coilabout the station, and they were crawlingdown the slippery incline to the wharf, men-aced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses,dishevelled express-wagons, and an emptyhearse—ah, that hearse! She shut her eyes as itpassed, and clutched at Archer's hand.

"If only it doesn't mean—poor Granny!"

"Oh, no, no—she's much better—she's all right,really. There—we've passed it!" he exclaimed,as if that made all the difference. Her hand re-mained in his, and as the carriage lurchedacross the gang-plank onto the ferry he bentover, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, andkissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. Shedisengaged herself with a faint smile, and hesaid: "You didn't expect me today?"

"Oh, no."

"I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'dmade all my arrangements—I very nearlycrossed you in the train."

"Oh—" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the nar-rowness of their escape.

"Do you know—I hardly remembered you?"

"Hardly remembered me?"

"I mean: how shall I explain? I—it's always so.EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALLOVER AGAIN."

"Oh, yes: I know! I know!"

"Does it—do I too: to you?" he insisted.

She nodded, looking out of the window.

"Ellen—Ellen—Ellen!"

She made no answer, and he sat in silence,watching her profile grow indistinct against thesnow-streaked dusk beyond the window. Whathad she been doing in all those four longmonths, he wondered? How little they knew ofeach other, after all! The precious momentswere slipping away, but he had forgotten eve-rything that he had meant to say to her andcould only helplessly brood on the mystery oftheir remoteness and their proximity, whichseemed to be symbolised by the fact of theirsitting so close to each other, and yet being un-able to see each other's faces.

"What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked,suddenly turning her face from the window.

"Yes."

"It was May who sent you to fetch me, then?How kind of her!"

He made no answer for a moment; then he saidexplosively: "Your husband's secretary came tosee me the day after we met in Boston."

In his brief letter to her he had made no allu-sion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention hadbeen to bury the incident in his bosom. But herreminder that they were in his wife's carriageprovoked him to an impulse of retaliation. Hewould see if she liked his reference to Riviereany better than he liked hers to May! As oncertain other occasions when he had expectedto shake her out of her usual composure, shebetrayed no sign of surprise: and at once heconcluded: "He writes to her, then."

"M. Riviere went to see you?"

"Yes: didn't you know?"

"No," she answered simply.

"And you're not surprised?"

She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me inBoston that he knew you; that he'd met you inEngland I think."

"Ellen—I must ask you one thing."

"Yes."

"I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I could-n't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helpedyou to get away—when you left your hus-band?"

His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would shemeet this question with the same composure?

"Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered,without the least tremor in her quiet voice.

Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent,that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more shehad managed, by her sheer simplicity, to makehim feel stupidly conventional just when he

thought he was flinging convention to thewinds.

"I think you're the most honest woman I evermet!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, no—but probably one of the least fussy,"she answered, a smile in her voice.

"Call it what you like: you look at things asthey are."

"Ah—I've had to. I've had to look at the Gor-gon."

"Well—it hasn't blinded you! You've seen thatshe's just an old bogey like all the others."

"She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one'stears."

The answer checked the pleading on Archer'slips: it seemed to come from depths of experi-ence beyond his reach. The slow advance of the

ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumpedagainst the piles of the slip with a violence thatmade the brougham stagger, and flung Archerand Madame Olenska against each other. Theyoung man, trembling, felt the pressure of hershoulder, and passed his arm about her.

"If you're not blind, then, you must see that thiscan't last."

"What can't?"

"Our being together—and not together."

"No. You ought not to have come today," shesaid in an altered voice; and suddenly sheturned, flung her arms about him and pressedher lips to his. At the same moment the carriagebegan to move, and a gas-lamp at the head ofthe slip flashed its light into the window. Shedrew away, and they sat silent and motionlesswhile the brougham struggled through thecongestion of carriages about the ferry-landing.

As they gained the street Archer began to speakhurriedly.

"Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeezeyourself back into your corner like that. A sto-len kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not eventrying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don'tsuppose that I don't understand your reasonsfor not wanting to let this feeling between usdwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yester-day, because when we've been apart, and I'mlooking forward to seeing you, every thought isburnt up in a great flame. But then you come;and you're so much more than I remembered,and what I want of you is so much more thanan hour or two every now and then, withwastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sitperfectly still beside you, like this, with thatother vision in my mind, just quietly trusting toit to come true."

For a moment she made no reply; then sheasked, hardly above a whisper: "What do youmean by trusting to it to come true?"

"Why—you know it will, don't you?"

"Your vision of you and me together?" Sheburst into a sudden hard laugh. "You chooseyour place well to put it to me!"

"Do you mean because we're in my wife'sbrougham? Shall we get out and walk, then? Idon't suppose you mind a little snow?"

She laughed again, more gently. "No; I shan'tget out and walk, because my business is to getto Granny's as quickly as I can. And you'll sitbeside me, and we'll look, not at visions, but atrealities."

"I don't know what you mean by realities. Theonly reality to me is this."

She met the words with a long silence, duringwhich the carriage rolled down an obscureside-street and then turned into the searchingillumination of Fifth Avenue.

"Is it your idea, then, that I should live withyou as your mistress—since I can't be yourwife?" she asked.

The crudeness of the question startled him: theword was one that women of his class foughtshy of, even when their talk flitted closest aboutthe topic. He noticed that Madame Olenskapronounced it as if it had a recognised place inher vocabulary, and he wondered if it had beenused familiarly in her presence in the horriblelife she had fled from. Her question pulled himup with a jerk, and he floundered.

"I want—I want somehow to get away with youinto a world where words like that—categorieslike that—won't exist. Where we shall be sim-ply two human beings who love each other,

who are the whole of life to each other; andnothing else on earth will matter."

She drew a deep sigh that ended in anotherlaugh. "Oh, my dear—where is that country?Have you ever been there?" she asked; and ashe remained sullenly dumb she went on: "Iknow so many who've tried to find it; and, be-lieve me, they all got out by mistake at waysidestations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, orMonte Carlo—and it wasn't at all different fromthe old world they'd left, but only rathersmaller and dingier and more promiscuous."

He had never heard her speak in such a tone,and he remembered the phrase she had used alittle while before.

"Yes, the Gorgon HAS dried your tears," hesaid.

"Well, she opened my eyes too; it's a delusionto say that she blinds people. What she does is

just the contrary—she fastens their eyelidsopen, so that they're never again in the blesseddarkness. Isn't there a Chinese torture like that?There ought to be. Ah, believe me, it's a miser-able little country!"

The carriage had crossed Forty-second Street:May's sturdy brougham-horse was carryingthem northward as if he had been a Kentuckytrotter. Archer choked with the sense of wastedminutes and vain words.

"Then what, exactly, is your plan for us?" heasked.

"For US? But there's no US in that sense! We'renear each other only if we stay far from eachother. Then we can be ourselves. Otherwisewe're only Newland Archer, the husband ofEllen Olenska's cousin, and Ellen Olenska, thecousin of Newland Archer's wife, trying to behappy behind the backs of the people who trustthem."

"Ah, I'm beyond that," he groaned.

"No, you're not! You've never been beyond.And I have," she said, in a strange voice, "and Iknow what it looks like there."

He sat silent, dazed with inarticulate pain.Then he groped in the darkness of the carriagefor the little bell that signalled orders to thecoachman. He remembered that May rangtwice when she wished to stop. He pressed thebell, and the carriage drew up beside the curb-stone.

"Why are we stopping? This is not Granny's,"Madame Olenska exclaimed.

"No: I shall get out here," he stammered, open-ing the door and jumping to the pavement. Bythe light of a street-lamp he saw her startledface, and the instinctive motion she made todetain him. He closed the door, and leaned fora moment in the window.

"You're right: I ought not to have come today,"he said, lowering his voice so that the coach-man should not hear. She bent forward, andseemed about to speak; but he had alreadycalled out the order to drive on, and the car-riage rolled away while he stood on the corner.The snow was over, and a tingling wind hadsprung up, that lashed his face as he stood gaz-ing. Suddenly he felt something stiff and coldon his lashes, and perceived that he had beencrying, and that the wind had frozen his tears.

He thrust his hands in his pockets, and walkedat a sharp pace down Fifth Avenue to his ownhouse.

XXX.

That evening when Archer came down beforedinner he found the drawing-room empty.

He and May were dining alone, all the familyengagements having been postponed sinceMrs. Manson Mingott's illness; and as May wasthe more punctual of the two he was surprisedthat she had not preceded him. He knew thatshe was at home, for while he dressed he hadheard her moving about in her room; and hewondered what had delayed her.

He had fallen into the way of dwelling on suchconjectures as a means of tying his thoughtsfast to reality. Sometimes he felt as if he hadfound the clue to his father-in-law's absorptionin trifles; perhaps even Mr. Welland, long ago,had had escapes and visions, and had conjuredup all the hosts of domesticity to defend him-self against them.

When May appeared he thought she lookedtired. She had put on the low-necked andtightly-laced dinner-dress which the Mingottceremonial exacted on the most informal occa-sions, and had built her fair hair into its usual

accumulated coils; and her face, in contrast,was wan and almost faded. But she shone onhim with her usual tenderness, and her eyeshad kept the blue dazzle of the day before.

"What became of you, dear?" she asked. "I waswaiting at Granny's, and Ellen came alone, andsaid she had dropped you on the way becauseyou had to rush off on business. There's noth-ing wrong?"

"Only some letters I'd forgotten, and wanted toget off before dinner."

"Ah—" she said; and a moment afterward: "I'msorry you didn't come to Granny's—unless theletters were urgent."

"They were," he rejoined, surprised at her insis-tence. "Besides, I don't see why I should havegone to your grandmother's. I didn't know youwere there."

She turned and moved to the looking-glassabove the mantel-piece. As she stood there,lifting her long arm to fasten a puff that hadslipped from its place in her intricate hair,Archer was struck by something languid andinelastic in her attitude, and wondered if thedeadly monotony of their lives had laid itsweight on her also. Then he remembered that,as he had left the house that morning, she hadcalled over the stairs that she would meet himat her grandmother's so that they might drivehome together. He had called back a cheery"Yes!" and then, absorbed in other visions, hadforgotten his promise. Now he was smittenwith compunction, yet irritated that so triflingan omission should be stored up against himafter nearly two years of marriage. He wasweary of living in a perpetual tepid honey-moon, without the temperature of passion yetwith all its exactions. If May had spoken outher grievances (he suspected her of many) hemight have laughed them away; but she was

trained to conceal imaginary wounds under aSpartan smile.

To disguise his own annoyance he asked howher grandmother was, and she answered thatMrs. Mingott was still improving, but had beenrather disturbed by the last news about theBeauforts.

"What news?"

"It seems they're going to stay in New York. Ibelieve he's going into an insurance business,or something. They're looking about for a smallhouse."

The preposterousness of the case was beyonddiscussion, and they went in to dinner. Duringdinner their talk moved in its usual limitedcircle; but Archer noticed that his wife made noallusion to Madame Olenska, nor to old Cath-erine's reception of her. He was thankful for thefact, yet felt it to be vaguely ominous.

They went up to the library for coffee, andArcher lit a cigar and took down a volume ofMichelet. He had taken to history in the eve-nings since May had shown a tendency to askhim to read aloud whenever she saw him witha volume of poetry: not that he disliked thesound of his own voice, but because he couldalways foresee her comments on what he read.In the days of their engagement she had simply(as he now perceived) echoed what he told her;but since he had ceased to provide her withopinions she had begun to hazard her own,with results destructive to his enjoyment of theworks commented on.

Seeing that he had chosen history she fetchedher workbasket, drew up an arm-chair to thegreen-shaded student lamp, and uncovered acushion she was embroidering for his sofa. Shewas not a clever needle-woman; her large ca-pable hands were made for riding, rowing andopen-air activities; but since other wives em-

broidered cushions for their husbands she didnot wish to omit this last link in her devotion.

She was so placed that Archer, by merely rais-ing his eyes, could see her bent above herwork-frame, her ruffled elbow-sleeves slippingback from her firm round arms, the betrothalsapphire shining on her left hand above herbroad gold wedding-ring, and the right handslowly and laboriously stabbing the canvas. Asshe sat thus, the lamplight full on her clearbrow, he said to himself with a secret dismaythat he would always know the thoughts be-hind it, that never, in all the years to come,would she surprise him by an unexpectedmood, by a new idea, a weakness, a cruelty oran emotion. She had spent her poetry and ro-mance on their short courting: the function wasexhausted because the need was past. Now shewas simply ripening into a copy of her mother,and mysteriously, by the very process, trying toturn him into a Mr. Welland. He laid down his

book and stood up impatiently; and at once sheraised her head.

"What's the matter?"

"The room is stifling: I want a little air."

He had insisted that the library curtains shoulddraw backward and forward on a rod, so thatthey might be closed in the evening, instead ofremaining nailed to a gilt cornice, and im-movably looped up over layers of lace, as in thedrawing-room; and he pulled them back andpushed up the sash, leaning out into the icynight. The mere fact of not looking at May,seated beside his table, under his lamp, the factof seeing other houses, roofs, chimneys, of get-ting the sense of other lives outside his own,other cities beyond New York, and a wholeworld beyond his world, cleared his brain andmade it easier to breathe.

After he had leaned out into the darkness for afew minutes he heard her say: "Newland! Doshut the window. You'll catch your death."

He pulled the sash down and turned back."Catch my death!" he echoed; and he felt likeadding: "But I've caught it already. I AMdead—I've been dead for months and months."

And suddenly the play of the word flashed upa wild suggestion. What if it were SHE whowas dead! If she were going to die—to diesoon—and leave him free! The sensation ofstanding there, in that warm familiar room, andlooking at her, and wishing her dead, was sostrange, so fascinating and overmastering, thatits enormity did not immediately strike him.He simply felt that chance had given him a newpossibility to which his sick soul might cling.Yes, May might die—people did: young peo-ple, healthy people like herself: she might die,and set him suddenly free.

She glanced up, and he saw by her wideningeyes that there must be something strange inhis own.

"Newland! Are you ill?"

He shook his head and turned toward his arm-chair. She bent over her work-frame, and as hepassed he laid his hand on her hair. "PoorMay!" he said.

"Poor? Why poor?" she echoed with a strainedlaugh.

"Because I shall never be able to open a win-dow without worrying you," he rejoined,laughing also.

For a moment she was silent; then she said verylow, her head bowed over her work: "I shallnever worry if you're happy."

"Ah, my dear; and I shall never be happyunless I can open the windows!"

"In THIS weather?" she remonstrated; and witha sigh he buried his head in his book.

Six or seven days passed. Archer heard nothingfrom Madame Olenska, and became aware thather name would not be mentioned in his pres-ence by any member of the family. He did nottry to see her; to do so while she was at oldCatherine's guarded bedside would have beenalmost impossible. In the uncertainty of thesituation he let himself drift, conscious, some-where below the surface of his thoughts, of aresolve which had come to him when he hadleaned out from his library window into the icynight. The strength of that resolve made it easyto wait and make no sign.

Then one day May told him that Mrs. MansonMingott had asked to see him. There was noth-ing surprising in the request, for the old ladywas steadily recovering, and she had alwaysopenly declared that she preferred Archer toany of her other grandsons-in-law. May gave

the message with evident pleasure: she wasproud of old Catherine's appreciation of herhusband.

There was a moment's pause, and then Archerfelt it incumbent on him to say: "All right. Shallwe go together this afternoon?"

His wife's face brightened, but she instantlyanswered: "Oh, you'd much better go alone. Itbores Granny to see the same people too often."

Archer's heart was beating violently when herang old Mrs. Mingott's bell. He had wantedabove all things to go alone, for he felt sure thevisit would give him the chance of saying aword in private to the Countess Olenska. Hehad determined to wait till the chance pre-sented itself naturally; and here it was, andhere he was on the doorstep. Behind the door,behind the curtains of the yellow damask roomnext to the hall, she was surely awaiting him; inanother moment he should see her, and be able

to speak to her before she led him to the sick-room.

He wanted only to put one question: after thathis course would be clear. What he wished toask was simply the date of her return to Wash-ington; and that question she could hardly re-fuse to answer.

But in the yellow sitting-room it was the mu-latto maid who waited. Her white teeth shininglike a keyboard, she pushed back the slidingdoors and ushered him into old Catherine'spresence.

The old woman sat in a vast throne-like arm-chair near her bed. Beside her was a mahoganystand bearing a cast bronze lamp with an en-graved globe, over which a green paper shadehad been balanced. There was not a book or anewspaper in reach, nor any evidence of femi-nine employment: conversation had alwaysbeen Mrs. Mingott's sole pursuit, and she

would have scorned to feign an interest in fan-cywork.

Archer saw no trace of the slight distortion leftby her stroke. She merely looked paler, withdarker shadows in the folds and recesses of herobesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by astarched bow between her first two chins, andthe muslin kerchief crossed over her billowingpurple dressing-gown, she seemed like someshrewd and kindly ancestress of her own whomight have yielded too freely to the pleasuresof the table.

She held out one of the little hands that nestledin a hollow of her huge lap like pet animals,and called to the maid: "Don't let in any oneelse. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep."

The maid disappeared, and the old lady turnedto her grandson.

"My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she askedgaily, launching out one hand in search of thefolds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "Mydaughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age—as if hideousness didn't matter all the more theharder it gets to conceal!"

"My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archerrejoined in the same tone; and she threw backher head and laughed.

"Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerkedout, twinkling at him maliciously; and beforehe could answer she added: "Was she so aw-fully handsome the day you drove her up fromthe ferry?"

He laughed, and she continued: "Was it be-cause you told her so that she had to put youout on the way? In my youth young men didn'tdesert pretty women unless they were madeto!" She gave another chuckle, and interruptedit to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she

didn't marry you; I always told her so. It wouldhave spared me all this worry. But who everthought of sparing their grandmother worry?"

Archer wondered if her illness had blurred herfaculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it'ssettled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me,whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn'tbeen here five minutes before I'd have gonedown on my knees to keep her—if only, for thelast twenty years, I'd been able to see where thefloor was!"

Archer listened in silence, and she went on:"They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know:persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Au-gusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that Imust hold out and cut off her allowance, till shewas made to see that it was her duty to go backto Olenski. They thought they'd convinced mewhen the secretary, or whatever he was, cameout with the last proposals: handsome propos-als I confess they were. After all, marriage is

marriage, and money's money—both usefulthings in their way ... and I didn't know what toanswer—" She broke off and drew a longbreath, as if speaking had become an effort."But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said: 'Yousweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cageagain? Never!' And now it's settled that she's tostay here and nurse her Granny as long asthere's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay pros-pect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I'vetold Letterblair that she's to be given her properallowance."

The young man heard her with veins aglow;but in his confusion of mind he hardly knewwhether her news brought joy or pain. He hadso definitely decided on the course he meant topursue that for the moment he could not read-just his thoughts. But gradually there stole overhim the delicious sense of difficulties deferredand opportunities miraculously provided. IfEllen had consented to come and live with her

grandmother it must surely be because she hadrecognised the impossibility of giving him up.This was her answer to his final appeal of theother day: if she would not take the extremestep he had urged, she had at last yielded tohalf-measures. He sank back into the thoughtwith the involuntary relief of a man who hasbeen ready to risk everything, and suddenlytastes the dangerous sweetness of security.

"She couldn't have gone back—it was impossi-ble!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on herside; and that's why I sent for you today, andwhy I said to your pretty wife, when she pro-posed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pin-ing to see Newland, and I don't want anybodyto share our transports.' For you see, my dear—" she drew her head back as far as its tetheringchins permitted, and looked him full in theeyes—"you see, we shall have a fight yet. Thefamily don't want her here, and they'll say it's

because I've been ill, because I'm a weak oldwoman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not wellenough yet to fight them one by one, andyou've got to do it for me."

"I?" he stammered.

"You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, herround eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives.Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit onhis with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated.

Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, hadrecovered his self-possession.

"Oh, I don't count—I'm too insignificant."

"Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you?You've got to get at them through Letterblair.Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.

"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your ownagainst them all without my help; but you shallhave it if you need it," he reassured her.

"Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling onhim with all her ancient cunning she added, asshe settled her head among the cushions: "Ialways knew you'd back us up, because theynever quote you when they talk about its beingher duty to go home."

He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity,and longed to ask: "And May—do they quoteher?" But he judged it safer to turn the ques-tion.

"And Madame Olenska? When am I to seeher?" he said.

The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, andwent through the pantomime of archness. "Nottoday. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska'sgone out."

He flushed with disappointment, and she wenton: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my car-riage to see Regina Beaufort."

She paused for this announcement to produceits effect. "That's what she's reduced me to al-ready. The day after she got here she put on herbest bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucum-ber, that she was going to call on Regina Beau-fort. 'I don't know her; who is she?' says I. 'She'syour grand-niece, and a most unhappywoman,' she says. 'She's the wife of a scoun-drel,' I answered. 'Well,' she says, 'and so am I,and yet all my family want me to go back tohim.' Well, that floored me, and I let her go;and finally one day she said it was raining toohard to go out on foot, and she wanted me tolend her my carriage. 'What for?' I asked her;and she said: 'To go and see cousin Regina'—COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of thewindow, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but Iunderstood her, and I let her have the car-

riage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, andso is she; and I've always liked courage aboveeverything."

Archer bent down and pressed his lips on thelittle hand that still lay on his.

"Eh—eh—eh! Whose hand did you think youwere kissing, young man—your wife's, I hope?"the old lady snapped out with her mockingcackle; and as he rose to go she called out afterhim: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'dbetter not say anything about our talk."

XXXI.

Archer had been stunned by old Catherine'snews. It was only natural that Madame Olenskashould have hastened from Washington in re-sponse to her grandmother's summons; but that

she should have decided to remain under herroof—especially now that Mrs. Mingott hadalmost regained her health—was less easy toexplain.

Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's deci-sion had not been influenced by the change inher financial situation. He knew the exact fig-ure of the small income which her husband hadallowed her at their separation. Without theaddition of her grandmother's allowance it washardly enough to live on, in any sense knownto the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Me-dora Manson, who shared her life, had beenruined, such a pittance would barely keep thetwo women clothed and fed. Yet Archer wasconvinced that Madame Olenska had not ac-cepted her grandmother's offer from interestedmotives.

She had the heedless generosity and the spas-modic extravagance of persons used to largefortunes, and indifferent to money; but she

could go without many things which her rela-tions considered indispensable, and Mrs. LovellMingott and Mrs. Welland had often beenheard to deplore that any one who had enjoyedthe cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski'sestablishments should care so little about "howthings were done." Moreover, as Archer knew,several months had passed since her allowancehad been cut off; yet in the interval she hadmade no effort to regain her grandmother'sfavour. Therefore if she had changed her courseit must be for a different reason.

He did not have far to seek for that reason. Onthe way from the ferry she had told him that heand she must remain apart; but she had said itwith her head on his breast. He knew that therewas no calculated coquetry in her words; shewas fighting her fate as he had fought his, andclinging desperately to her resolve that theyshould not break faith with the people whotrusted them. But during the ten days which

had elapsed since her return to New York shehad perhaps guessed from his silence, and fromthe fact of his making no attempt to see her,that he was meditating a decisive step, a stepfrom which there was no turning back. At thethought, a sudden fear of her own weaknessmight have seized her, and she might have feltthat, after all, it was better to accept the com-promise usual in such cases, and follow the lineof least resistance.

An hour earlier, when he had rung Mrs. Min-gott's bell, Archer had fancied that his path wasclear before him. He had meant to have a wordalone with Madame Olenska, and failing that,to learn from her grandmother on what day,and by which train, she was returning to Wash-ington. In that train he intended to join her, andtravel with her to Washington, or as much far-ther as she was willing to go. His own fancyinclined to Japan. At any rate she would under-stand at once that, wherever she went, he was

going. He meant to leave a note for May thatshould cut off any other alternative.

He had fancied himself not only nerved for thisplunge but eager to take it; yet his first feelingon hearing that the course of events waschanged had been one of relief. Now, however,as he walked home from Mrs. Mingott's, hewas conscious of a growing distaste for whatlay before him. There was nothing unknown orunfamiliar in the path he was presumably totread; but when he had trodden it before it wasas a free man, who was accountable to no onefor his actions, and could lend himself with anamused detachment to the game of precautionsand prevarications, concealments and compli-ances, that the part required. This procedurewas called "protecting a woman's honour"; andthe best fiction, combined with the after-dinnertalk of his elders, had long since initiated himinto every detail of its code.

Now he saw the matter in a new light, and hispart in it seemed singularly diminished. It was,in fact, that which, with a secret fatuity, he hadwatched Mrs. Thorley Rushworth play towarda fond and unperceiving husband: a smiling,bantering, humouring, watchful and incessantlie. A lie by day, a lie by night, a lie in everytouch and every look; a lie in every caress andevery quarrel; a lie in every word and in everysilence.

It was easier, and less dastardly on the whole,for a wife to play such a part toward her hus-band. A woman's standard of truthfulness wastacitly held to be lower: she was the subjectcreature, and versed in the arts of the enslaved.Then she could always plead moods andnerves, and the right not to be held too strictlyto account; and even in the most strait-lacedsocieties the laugh was always against the hus-band.

But in Archer's little world no one laughed at awife deceived, and a certain measure of con-tempt was attached to men who continuedtheir philandering after marriage. In the rota-tion of crops there was a recognised season forwild oats; but they were not to be sown morethan once.

Archer had always shared this view: in hisheart he thought Lefferts despicable. But tolove Ellen Olenska was not to become a manlike Lefferts: for the first time Archer foundhimself face to face with the dread argument ofthe individual case. Ellen Olenska was like noother woman, he was like no other man: theirsituation, therefore, resembled no one else's,and they were answerable to no tribunal butthat of their own judgment.

Yes, but in ten minutes more he would bemounting his own doorstep; and there wereMay, and habit, and honour, and all the old

decencies that he and his people had alwaysbelieved in ...

At his corner he hesitated, and then walked ondown Fifth Avenue.

Ahead of him, in the winter night, loomed a bigunlit house. As he drew near he thought howoften he had seen it blazing with lights, its stepsawninged and carpeted, and carriages waitingin double line to draw up at the curbstone. Itwas in the conservatory that stretched its dead-black bulk down the side street that he hadtaken his first kiss from May; it was under themyriad candles of the ball-room that he hadseen her appear, tall and silver-shining as ayoung Diana.

Now the house was as dark as the grave, exceptfor a faint flare of gas in the basement, and alight in one upstairs room where the blind hadnot been lowered. As Archer reached the cornerhe saw that the carriage standing at the door

was Mrs. Manson Mingott's. What an opportu-nity for Sillerton Jackson, if he should chance topass! Archer had been greatly moved by oldCatherine's account of Madame Olenska's atti-tude toward Mrs. Beaufort; it made the right-eous reprobation of New York seem like a pass-ing by on the other side. But he knew wellenough what construction the clubs and draw-ing-rooms would put on Ellen Olenska's visitsto her cousin.

He paused and looked up at the lighted win-dow. No doubt the two women were sittingtogether in that room: Beaufort had probablysought consolation elsewhere. There were evenrumours that he had left New York with FannyRing; but Mrs. Beaufort's attitude made thereport seem improbable.

Archer had the nocturnal perspective of FifthAvenue almost to himself. At that hour mostpeople were indoors, dressing for dinner; andhe was secretly glad that Ellen's exit was likely

to be unobserved. As the thought passedthrough his mind the door opened, and shecame out. Behind her was a faint light, such asmight have been carried down the stairs toshow her the way. She turned to say a word tosome one; then the door closed, and she camedown the steps.

"Ellen," he said in a low voice, as she reachedthe pavement.

She stopped with a slight start, and just then hesaw two young men of fashionable cut ap-proaching. There was a familiar air about theirovercoats and the way their smart silk mufflerswere folded over their white ties; and he won-dered how youths of their quality happened tobe dining out so early. Then he rememberedthat the Reggie Chiverses, whose house was afew doors above, were taking a large party thatevening to see Adelaide Neilson in Romeo andJuliet, and guessed that the two were of thenumber. They passed under a lamp, and he

recognised Lawrence Lefferts and a youngChivers.

A mean desire not to have Madame Olenskaseen at the Beauforts' door vanished as he feltthe penetrating warmth of her hand.

"I shall see you now—we shall be together," hebroke out, hardly knowing what he said.

"Ah," she answered, "Granny has told you?"

While he watched her he was aware that Lef-ferts and Chivers, on reaching the farther sideof the street corner, had discreetly struck awayacross Fifth Avenue. It was the kind of mascu-line solidarity that he himself often practised;now he sickened at their connivance. Did shereally imagine that he and she could live likethis? And if not, what else did she imagine?

"Tomorrow I must see you—somewhere wherewe can be alone," he said, in a voice thatsounded almost angry to his own ears.

She wavered, and moved toward the carriage.

"But I shall be at Granny's—for the present thatis," she added, as if conscious that her changeof plans required some explanation.

"Somewhere where we can be alone," he in-sisted.

She gave a faint laugh that grated on him.

"In New York? But there are no churches ... nomonuments."

"There's the Art Museum—in the Park," he ex-plained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-pasttwo. I shall be at the door ..."

She turned away without answering and gotquickly into the carriage. As it drove off she

leaned forward, and he thought she waved herhand in the obscurity. He stared after her in aturmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed tohim that he had been speaking not to thewoman he loved but to another, a woman hewas indebted to for pleasures already weariedof: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner ofthis hackneyed vocabulary.

"She'll come!" he said to himself, almost con-temptuously.

Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whoseanecdotic canvases filled one of the main galler-ies of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and en-caustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Mu-seum, they had wandered down a passage tothe room where the "Cesnola antiquities"mouldered in unvisited loneliness.

They had this melancholy retreat to themselves,and seated on the divan enclosing the centralsteam-radiator, they were staring silently at the

glass cabinets mounted in ebonised woodwhich contained the recovered fragments ofIlium.

"It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never camehere before."

"Ah, well—. Some day, I suppose, it will be agreat Museum."

"Yes," she assented absently.

She stood up and wandered across the room.Archer, remaining seated, watched the lightmovements of her figure, so girlish even underits heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wingin her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like aflattened vine spiral on each cheek above theear. His mind, as always when they first met,was wholly absorbed in the delicious detailsthat made her herself and no other. Presentlyhe rose and approached the case before whichshe stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with

small broken objects—hardly recognisable do-mestic utensils, ornaments and personal tri-fles—made of glass, of clay, of discolouredbronze and other time-blurred substances.

"It seems cruel," she said, "that after a whilenothing matters ... any more than these littlethings, that used to be necessary and importantto forgotten people, and now have to beguessed at under a magnifying glass and la-belled: 'Use unknown.'"

"Yes; but meanwhile—"

"Ah, meanwhile—"

As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat,her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veildrawn down like a transparent mask to the tipof her nose, and the bunch of violets he hadbrought her stirring with her quickly-takenbreath, it seemed incredible that this pure har-

mony of line and colour should ever suffer thestupid law of change.

"Meanwhile everything matters—that concernsyou," he said.

She looked at him thoughtfully, and turnedback to the divan. He sat down beside her andwaited; but suddenly he heard a step echoingfar off down the empty rooms, and felt thepressure of the minutes.

"What is it you wanted to tell me?" she asked,as if she had received the same warning.

"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why,that I believe you came to New York becauseyou were afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Of my coming to Washington."

She looked down at her muff, and he saw herhands stir in it uneasily.

"Well—?"

"Well—yes," she said.

"You WERE afraid? You knew—?"

"Yes: I knew ..."

"Well, then?" he insisted.

"Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returnedwith a long questioning sigh.

"Better—?"

"We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, whatyou always wanted?"

"To have you here, you mean—in reach and yetout of reach? To meet you in this way, on the

sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I toldyou the other day what I wanted."

She hesitated. "And you still think this—worse?"

"A thousand times!" He paused. "It would beeasy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it de-testable."

"Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath ofrelief.

He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then—it's myturn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that youthink better?"

She hung her head and continued to clasp andunclasp her hands in her muff. The step drewnearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walkedlistlessly through the room like a ghost stalkingthrough a necropolis. They fixed their eyes si-multaneously on the case opposite them, and

when the official figure had vanished down avista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spokeagain.

"What do you think better?"

Instead of answering she murmured: "I prom-ised Granny to stay with her because it seemedto me that here I should be safer."

"From me?"

She bent her head slightly, without looking athim.

"Safer from loving me?"

Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear over-flow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of herveil.

"Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let usbe like all the others!" she protested.

"What others? I don't profess to be differentfrom my kind. I'm consumed by the samewants and the same longings."

She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and hesaw a faint colour steal into her cheeks.

"Shall I—once come to you; and then gohome?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clearvoice.

The blood rushed to the young man's forehead."Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemedas if he held his heart in his hands, like a fullcup that the least motion might overbrim.

Then her last phrase struck his ear and his faceclouded. "Go home? What do you mean bygoing home?"

"Home to my husband."

"And you expect me to say yes to that?"

She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What elseis there? I can't stay here and lie to the peoplewho've been good to me."

"But that's the very reason why I ask you tocome away!"

"And destroy their lives, when they've helpedme to remake mine?"

Archer sprang to his feet and stood lookingdown on her in inarticulate despair. It wouldhave been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once."He knew the power she would put in his handsif she consented; there would be no difficultythen in persuading her not to go back to herhusband.

But something silenced the word on his lips. Asort of passionate honesty in her made it incon-ceivable that he should try to draw her into thatfamiliar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said

to himself, "I should have to let her go again."And that was not to be imagined.

But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wetcheek, and wavered.

"After all," he began again, "we have lives ofour own.... There's no use attempting the im-possible. You're so unprejudiced about somethings, so used, as you say, to looking at theGorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid toface our case, and see it as it really is—unlessyou think the sacrifice is not worth making."

She stood up also, her lips tightening under arapid frown.

"Call it that, then—I must go," she said, draw-ing her little watch from her bosom.

She turned away, and he followed and caughther by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once,"he said, his head turning suddenly at the

thought of losing her; and for a second or twothey looked at each other almost like enemies.

"When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?"

She hesitated. "The day after."

"Dearest—!" he said again.

She had disengaged her wrist; but for a mo-ment they continued to hold each other's eyes,and he saw that her face, which had grownvery pale, was flooded with a deep inner radi-ance. His heart beat with awe: he felt that hehad never before beheld love visible.

"Oh, I shall be late—good-bye. No, don't comeany farther than this," she cried, walking hur-riedly away down the long room, as if the re-flected radiance in his eyes had frightened her.When she reached the door she turned for amoment to wave a quick farewell.

Archer walked home alone. Darkness was fal-ling when he let himself into his house, and helooked about at the familiar objects in the hallas if he viewed them from the other side of thegrave.

The parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran up thestairs to light the gas on the upper landing.

"Is Mrs. Archer in?"

"No, sir; Mrs. Archer went out in the carriageafter luncheon, and hasn't come back."

With a sense of relief he entered the library andflung himself down in his armchair. The par-lour-maid followed, bringing the student lampand shaking some coals onto the dying fire.When she left he continued to sit motionless,his elbows on his knees, his chin on his claspedhands, his eyes fixed on the red grate.

He sat there without conscious thoughts, with-out sense of the lapse of time, in a deep andgrave amazement that seemed to suspend liferather than quicken it. "This was what had tobe, then ... this was what had to be," he keptrepeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutchof doom. What he had dreamed of had been sodifferent that there was a mortal chill in hisrapture.

The door opened and May came in.

"I'm dreadfully late—you weren't worried,were you?" she asked, laying her hand on hisshoulder with one of her rare caresses.

He looked up astonished. "Is it late?"

"After seven. I believe you've been asleep!" Shelaughed, and drawing out her hat pins tossedher velvet hat on the sofa. She looked palerthan usual, but sparkling with an unwontedanimation.

"I went to see Granny, and just as I was goingaway Ellen came in from a walk; so I stayedand had a long talk with her. It was ages sincewe'd had a real talk...." She had dropped intoher usual armchair, facing his, and was runningher fingers through her rumpled hair. He fan-cied she expected him to speak.

"A really good talk," she went on, smiling withwhat seemed to Archer an unnatural vividness."She was so dear—just like the old Ellen. I'mafraid I haven't been fair to her lately. I'vesometimes thought—"

Archer stood up and leaned against the man-telpiece, out of the radius of the lamp.

"Yes, you've thought—?" he echoed as shepaused.

"Well, perhaps I haven't judged her fairly. She'sso different—at least on the surface. She takesup such odd people—she seems to like to make

herself conspicuous. I suppose it's the life she'sled in that fast European society; no doubt weseem dreadfully dull to her. But I don't want tojudge her unfairly."

She paused again, a little breathless with theunwonted length of her speech, and sat withher lips slightly parted and a deep blush on hercheeks.

Archer, as he looked at her, was reminded ofthe glow which had suffused her face in theMission Garden at St. Augustine. He becameaware of the same obscure effort in her, thesame reaching out toward something beyondthe usual range of her vision.

"She hates Ellen," he thought, "and she's tryingto overcome the feeling, and to get me to helpher to overcome it."

The thought moved him, and for a moment hewas on the point of breaking the silence be-

tween them, and throwing himself on hermercy.

"You understand, don't you," she went on,"why the family have sometimes been an-noyed? We all did what we could for her atfirst; but she never seemed to understand. Andnow this idea of going to see Mrs. Beaufort, ofgoing there in Granny's carriage! I'm afraidshe's quite alienated the van der Luydens ..."

"Ah," said Archer with an impatient laugh. Theopen door had closed between them again.

"It's time to dress; we're dining out, aren't we?"he asked, moving from the fire.

She rose also, but lingered near the hearth. Ashe walked past her she moved forward impul-sively, as though to detain him: their eyes met,and he saw that hers were of the same swim-ming blue as when he had left her to drive toJersey City.

She flung her arms about his neck and pressedher cheek to his.

"You haven't kissed me today," she said in awhisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms.

XXXII.

"At the court of the Tuileries," said Mr. SillertonJackson with his reminiscent smile, "suchthings were pretty openly tolerated."

The scene was the van der Luydens' black wal-nut dining-room in Madison Avenue, and thetime the evening after Newland Archer's visitto the Museum of Art. Mr. and Mrs. van derLuyden had come to town for a few days fromSkuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fledat the announcement of Beaufort's failure. Ithad been represented to them that the disarray

into which society had been thrown by thisdeplorable affair made their presence in townmore necessary than ever. It was one of theoccasions when, as Mrs. Archer put it, they"owed it to society" to show themselves at theOpera, and even to open their own doors.

"It will never do, my dear Louisa, to let peoplelike Mrs. Lemuel Struthers think they can stepinto Regina's shoes. It is just at such times thatnew people push in and get a footing. It wasowing to the epidemic of chicken-pox in NewYork the winter Mrs. Struthers first appearedthat the married men slipped away to herhouse while their wives were in the nursery.You and dear Henry, Louisa, must stand in thebreach as you always have."

Mr. and Mrs. van der Luyden could not remaindeaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroi-cally they had come to town, unmuffled thehouse, and sent out invitations for two dinnersand an evening reception.

On this particular evening they had invitedSillerton Jackson, Mrs. Archer and Newlandand his wife to go with them to the Opera,where Faust was being sung for the first timethat winter. Nothing was done without cere-mony under the van der Luyden roof, andthough there were but four guests the repasthad begun at seven punctually, so that theproper sequence of courses might be servedwithout haste before the gentlemen settleddown to their cigars.

Archer had not seen his wife since the eveningbefore. He had left early for the office, where hehad plunged into an accumulation of unimpor-tant business. In the afternoon one of the seniorpartners had made an unexpected call on histime; and he had reached home so late thatMay had preceded him to the van der Luy-dens', and sent back the carriage.

Now, across the Skuytercliff carnations and themassive plate, she struck him as pale and lan-

guid; but her eyes shone, and she talked withexaggerated animation.

The subject which had called forth Mr. SillertonJackson's favourite allusion had been broughtup (Archer fancied not without intention) bytheir hostess. The Beaufort failure, or rather theBeaufort attitude since the failure, was still afruitful theme for the drawing-room moralist;and after it had been thoroughly examined andcondemned Mrs. van der Luyden had turnedher scrupulous eyes on May Archer.

"Is it possible, dear, that what I hear is true? Iwas told your grandmother Mingott's carriagewas seen standing at Mrs. Beaufort's door." Itwas noticeable that she no longer called theoffending lady by her Christian name.

May's colour rose, and Mrs. Archer put in hast-ily: "If it was, I'm convinced it was there with-out Mrs. Mingott's knowledge."

"Ah, you think—?" Mrs. van der Luydenpaused, sighed, and glanced at her husband.

"I'm afraid," Mr. van der Luyden said, "thatMadame Olenska's kind heart may have led herinto the imprudence of calling on Mrs. Beau-fort."

"Or her taste for peculiar people," put in Mrs.Archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt in-nocently on her son's.

"I'm sorry to think it of Madame Olenska," saidMrs. van der Luyden; and Mrs. Archer mur-mured: "Ah, my dear—and after you'd had hertwice at Skuytercliff!"

It was at this point that Mr. Jackson seized thechance to place his favourite allusion.

"At the Tuileries," he repeated, seeing the eyesof the company expectantly turned on him, "thestandard was excessively lax in some respects;

and if you'd asked where Morny's money camefrom—! Or who paid the debts of some of theCourt beauties ..."

"I hope, dear Sillerton," said Mrs. Archer, "youare not suggesting that we should adopt suchstandards?"

"I never suggest," returned Mr. Jackson imper-turbably. "But Madame Olenska's foreignbringing-up may make her less particular—"

"Ah," the two elder ladies sighed.

"Still, to have kept her grandmother's carriageat a defaulter's door!" Mr. van der Luyden pro-tested; and Archer guessed that he was re-membering, and resenting, the hampers of car-nations he had sent to the little house inTwenty-third Street.

"Of course I've always said that she looks atthings quite differently," Mrs. Archer summedup.

A flush rose to May's forehead. She lookedacross the table at her husband, and said pre-cipitately: "I'm sure Ellen meant it kindly."

"Imprudent people are often kind," said Mrs.Archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenua-tion; and Mrs. van der Luyden murmured: "Ifonly she had consulted some one—"

"Ah, that she never did!" Mrs. Archer rejoined.

At this point Mr. van der Luyden glanced at hiswife, who bent her head slightly in the direc-tion of Mrs. Archer; and the glimmering trainsof the three ladies swept out of the door whilethe gentlemen settled down to their cigars. Mr.van der Luyden supplied short ones on Operanights; but they were so good that they madehis guests deplore his inexorable punctuality.

Archer, after the first act, had detached himselffrom the party and made his way to the back ofthe club box. From there he watched, over vari-ous Chivers, Mingott and Rushworth shoul-ders, the same scene that he had looked at, twoyears previously, on the night of his first meet-ing with Ellen Olenska. He had half-expectedher to appear again in old Mrs. Mingott's box,but it remained empty; and he sat motionless,his eyes fastened on it, till suddenly MadameNilsson's pure soprano broke out into "M'ama,non m'ama ..."

Archer turned to the stage, where, in the famil-iar setting of giant roses and pen-wiper pansies,the same large blonde victim was succumbingto the same small brown seducer.

From the stage his eyes wandered to the pointof the horseshoe where May sat between twoolder ladies, just as, on that former evening, shehad sat between Mrs. Lovell Mingott and hernewly-arrived "foreign" cousin. As on that eve-

ning, she was all in white; and Archer, who hadnot noticed what she wore, recognised the blue-white satin and old lace of her wedding dress.

It was the custom, in old New York, for bridesto appear in this costly garment during the firstyear or two of marriage: his mother, he knew,kept hers in tissue paper in the hope that Janeymight some day wear it, though poor Janeywas reaching the age when pearl grey poplinand no bridesmaids would be thought more"appropriate."

It struck Archer that May, since their returnfrom Europe, had seldom worn her bridal satin,and the surprise of seeing her in it made himcompare her appearance with that of the younggirl he had watched with such blissful anticipa-tions two years earlier.

Though May's outline was slightly heavier, asher goddesslike build had foretold, her athleticerectness of carriage, and the girlish transpar-

ency of her expression, remained unchanged:but for the slight languor that Archer had latelynoticed in her she would have been the exactimage of the girl playing with the bouquet oflilies-of-the-valley on her betrothal evening.The fact seemed an additional appeal to hispity: such innocence was as moving as thetrustful clasp of a child. Then he rememberedthe passionate generosity latent under that in-curious calm. He recalled her glance of under-standing when he had urged that their en-gagement should be announced at the Beaufortball; he heard the voice in which she had said,in the Mission garden: "I couldn't have myhappiness made out of a wrong—a wrong tosome one else;" and an uncontrollable longingseized him to tell her the truth, to throw him-self on her generosity, and ask for the freedomhe had once refused.

Newland Archer was a quiet and self-controlled young man. Conformity to the disci-

pline of a small society had become almost hissecond nature. It was deeply distasteful to himto do anything melodramatic and conspicuous,anything Mr. van der Luyden would have dep-recated and the club box condemned as badform. But he had become suddenly uncon-scious of the club box, of Mr. van der Luyden,of all that had so long enclosed him in thewarm shelter of habit. He walked along thesemi-circular passage at the back of the house,and opened the door of Mrs. van der Luyden'sbox as if it had been a gate into the unknown.

"M'ama!" thrilled out the triumphant Margue-rite; and the occupants of the box looked up insurprise at Archer's entrance. He had alreadybroken one of the rules of his world, whichforbade the entering of a box during a solo.

Slipping between Mr. van der Luyden andSillerton Jackson, he leaned over his wife.

"I've got a beastly headache; don't tell any one,but come home, won't you?" he whispered.

May gave him a glance of comprehension, andhe saw her whisper to his mother, who noddedsympathetically; then she murmured an excuseto Mrs. van der Luyden, and rose from her seatjust as Marguerite fell into Faust's arms. Archer,while he helped her on with her Opera cloak,noticed the exchange of a significant smile be-tween the older ladies.

As they drove away May laid her hand shylyon his. "I'm so sorry you don't feel well. I'mafraid they've been overworking you again atthe office."

"No—it's not that: do you mind if I open thewindow?" he returned confusedly, lettingdown the pane on his side. He sat staring outinto the street, feeling his wife beside him as asilent watchful interrogation, and keeping hiseyes steadily fixed on the passing houses. At

their door she caught her skirt in the step of thecarriage, and fell against him.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, steadyingher with his arm.

"No; but my poor dress—see how I've torn it!"she exclaimed. She bent to gather up a mud-stained breadth, and followed him up the stepsinto the hall. The servants had not expectedthem so early, and there was only a glimmer ofgas on the upper landing.

Archer mounted the stairs, turned up the light,and put a match to the brackets on each side ofthe library mantelpiece. The curtains weredrawn, and the warm friendly aspect of theroom smote him like that of a familiar face metduring an unavowable errand.

He noticed that his wife was very pale, andasked if he should get her some brandy.

"Oh, no," she exclaimed with a momentaryflush, as she took off her cloak. "But hadn't youbetter go to bed at once?" she added, as heopened a silver box on the table and took out acigarette.

Archer threw down the cigarette and walked tohis usual place by the fire.

"No; my head is not as bad as that." He paused."And there's something I want to say; some-thing important—that I must tell you at once."

She had dropped into an armchair, and raisedher head as he spoke. "Yes, dear?" she rejoined,so gently that he wondered at the lack of won-der with which she received this preamble.

"May—" he began, standing a few feet from herchair, and looking over at her as if the slightdistance between them were an unbridgeableabyss. The sound of his voice echoed uncannilythrough the homelike hush, and he repeated:

"There is something I've got to tell you ... aboutmyself ..."

She sat silent, without a movement or a tremorof her lashes. She was still extremely pale, buther face had a curious tranquillity of expressionthat seemed drawn from some secret innersource.

Archer checked the conventional phrases ofself-accusal that were crowding to his lips. Hewas determined to put the case baldly, withoutvain recrimination or excuse.

"Madame Olenska—" he said; but at the namehis wife raised her hand as if to silence him. Asshe did so the gaslight struck on the gold of herwedding-ring.

"Oh, why should we talk about Ellen tonight?"she asked, with a slight pout of impatience.

"Because I ought to have spoken before."

Her face remained calm. "Is it really worthwhile, dear? I know I've been unfair to her attimes—perhaps we all have. You've under-stood her, no doubt, better than we did: you'vealways been kind to her. But what does it mat-ter, now it's all over?"

Archer looked at her blankly. Could it be pos-sible that the sense of unreality in which he felthimself imprisoned had communicated itself tohis wife?

"All over—what do you mean?" he asked in anindistinct stammer.

May still looked at him with transparent eyes."Why—since she's going back to Europe sosoon; since Granny approves and understands,and has arranged to make her independent ofher husband—"

She broke off, and Archer, grasping the cornerof the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and

steadying himself against it, made a vain effortto extend the same control to his reelingthoughts.

"I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice goon, "that you had been kept at the office thisevening about the business arrangements. Itwas settled this morning, I believe." She low-ered her eyes under his unseeing stare, andanother fugitive flush passed over her face.

He understood that his own eyes must be un-bearable, and turning away, rested his elbowson the mantel-shelf and covered his face. Some-thing drummed and clanged furiously in hisears; he could not tell if it were the blood in hisveins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel.

May sat without moving or speaking while theclock slowly measured out five minutes. Alump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hear-ing her rise to push it back, Archer at lengthturned and faced her.

"It's impossible," he exclaimed.

"Impossible—?"

"How do you know—what you've just toldme?"

"I saw Ellen yesterday—I told you I'd seen herat Granny's."

"It wasn't then that she told you?"

"No; I had a note from her this afternoon.—Doyou want to see it?"

He could not find his voice, and she went outof the room, and came back almost immedi-ately.

"I thought you knew," she said simply.

She laid a sheet of paper on the table, andArcher put out his hand and took it up. Theletter contained only a few lines.

"May dear, I have at last made Granny under-stand that my visit to her could be no morethan a visit; and she has been as kind and gen-erous as ever. She sees now that if I return toEurope I must live by myself, or rather withpoor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. Iam hurrying back to Washington to pack up,and we sail next week. You must be very goodto Granny when I'm gone—as good as you'vealways been to me. Ellen.

"If any of my friends wish to urge me to changemy mind, please tell them it would be utterlyuseless."

Archer read the letter over two or three times;then he flung it down and burst out laughing.

The sound of his laugh startled him. It recalledJaney's midnight fright when she had caughthim rocking with incomprehensible mirth overMay's telegram announcing that the date oftheir marriage had been advanced.

"Why did she write this?" he asked, checkinghis laugh with a supreme effort.

May met the question with her unshaken can-dour. "I suppose because we talked things overyesterday—"

"What things?"

"I told her I was afraid I hadn't been fair toher—hadn't always understood how hard itmust have been for her here, alone among somany people who were relations and yetstrangers; who felt the right to criticise, and yetdidn't always know the circumstances." Shepaused. "I knew you'd been the one friend shecould always count on; and I wanted her toknow that you and I were the same—in all ourfeelings."

She hesitated, as if waiting for him to speak,and then added slowly: "She understood my

wishing to tell her this. I think she understandseverything."

She went up to Archer, and taking one of hiscold hands pressed it quickly against her cheek.

"My head aches too; good-night, dear," shesaid, and turned to the door, her torn andmuddy wedding-dress dragging after heracross the room.

XXXIII.

It was, as Mrs. Archer smilingly said to Mrs.Welland, a great event for a young couple togive their first big dinner.

The Newland Archers, since they had set uptheir household, had received a good deal ofcompany in an informal way. Archer was fond

of having three or four friends to dine, and Maywelcomed them with the beaming readiness ofwhich her mother had set her the example inconjugal affairs. Her husband questionedwhether, if left to herself, she would ever haveasked any one to the house; but he had longgiven up trying to disengage her real self fromthe shape into which tradition and training hadmoulded her. It was expected that well-offyoung couples in New York should do a gooddeal of informal entertaining, and a Wellandmarried to an Archer was doubly pledged tothe tradition.

But a big dinner, with a hired chef and twoborrowed footmen, with Roman punch, rosesfrom Henderson's, and menus on gilt-edgedcards, was a different affair, and not to belightly undertaken. As Mrs. Archer remarked,the Roman punch made all the difference; notin itself but by its manifold implications—sinceit signified either canvas-backs or terrapin, two

soups, a hot and a cold sweet, full decolletagewith short sleeves, and guests of a proportion-ate importance.

It was always an interesting occasion when ayoung pair launched their first invitations inthe third person, and their summons was sel-dom refused even by the seasoned and sought-after. Still, it was admittedly a triumph that thevan der Luydens, at May's request, should havestayed over in order to be present at her fare-well dinner for the Countess Olenska.

The two mothers-in-law sat in May's drawing-room on the afternoon of the great day, Mrs.Archer writing out the menus on Tiffany'sthickest gilt-edged bristol, while Mrs. Wellandsuperintended the placing of the palms andstandard lamps.

Archer, arriving late from his office, foundthem still there. Mrs. Archer had turned herattention to the name-cards for the table, and

Mrs. Welland was considering the effect ofbringing forward the large gilt sofa, so that an-other "corner" might be created between thepiano and the window.

May, they told him, was in the dining-roominspecting the mound of Jacqueminot roses andmaidenhair in the centre of the long table, andthe placing of the Maillard bonbons in open-work silver baskets between the candelabra. Onthe piano stood a large basket of orchids whichMr. van der Luyden had had sent fromSkuytercliff. Everything was, in short, as itshould be on the approach of so considerablean event.

Mrs. Archer ran thoughtfully over the list,checking off each name with her sharp goldpen.

"Henry van der Luyden—Louisa—the LovellMingotts—the Reggie Chiverses—LawrenceLefferts and Gertrude—(yes, I suppose May

was right to have them)—the Selfridge Merrys,Sillerton Jackson, Van Newland and his wife.(How time passes! It seems only yesterday thathe was your best man, Newland)—and Count-ess Olenska—yes, I think that's all...."

Mrs. Welland surveyed her son-in-law affec-tionately. "No one can say, Newland, that youand May are not giving Ellen a handsome send-off."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Archer, "I understandMay's wanting her cousin to tell people abroadthat we're not quite barbarians."

"I'm sure Ellen will appreciate it. She was toarrive this morning, I believe. It will make amost charming last impression. The eveningbefore sailing is usually so dreary," Mrs. Wel-land cheerfully continued.

Archer turned toward the door, and hismother-in-law called to him: "Do go in and

have a peep at the table. And don't let May tireherself too much." But he affected not to hear,and sprang up the stairs to his library. Theroom looked at him like an alien countenancecomposed into a polite grimace; and he per-ceived that it had been ruthlessly "tidied," andprepared, by a judicious distribution of ash-trays and cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemento smoke in.

"Ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long—" andhe went on to his dressing-room.

Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska'sdeparture from New York. During those tendays Archer had had no sign from her but thatconveyed by the return of a key wrapped intissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealedenvelope addressed in her hand. This retort tohis last appeal might have been interpreted as aclassic move in a familiar game; but the youngman chose to give it a different meaning. Shewas still fighting against her fate; but she was

going to Europe, and she was not returning toher husband. Nothing, therefore, was to pre-vent his following her; and once he had takenthe irrevocable step, and had proved to her thatit was irrevocable, he believed she would notsend him away.

This confidence in the future had steadied himto play his part in the present. It had kept himfrom writing to her, or betraying, by any signor act, his misery and mortification. It seemedto him that in the deadly silent game betweenthem the trumps were still in his hands; and hewaited.

There had been, nevertheless, moments suffi-ciently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letter-blair, the day after Madame Olenska's depar-ture, had sent for him to go over the details ofthe trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wishedto create for her granddaughter. For a couple ofhours Archer had examined the terms of thedeed with his senior, all the while obscurely

feeling that if he had been consulted it was forsome reason other than the obvious one of hiscousinship; and that the close of the conferencewould reveal it.

"Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsomearrangement," Mr. Letterblair had summed up,after mumbling over a summary of the settle-ment. "In fact I'm bound to say she's beentreated pretty handsomely all round."

"All round?" Archer echoed with a touch ofderision. "Do you refer to her husband's pro-posal to give her back her own money?"

Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up afraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's thelaw; and your wife's cousin was married underthe French law. It's to be presumed she knewwhat that meant."

"Even if she did, what happened subse-quently—." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair

had laid his pen-handle against his big corru-gated nose, and was looking down it with theexpression assumed by virtuous elderly gen-tlemen when they wish their youngers to un-derstand that virtue is not synonymous withignorance.

"My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate theCount's transgressions; but—but on the otherside ... I wouldn't put my hand in the fire ...well, that there hadn't been tit for tat ... with theyoung champion...." Mr. Letterblair unlocked adrawer and pushed a folded paper towardArcher. "This report, the result of discreet en-quiries ..." And then, as Archer made no effortto glance at the paper or to repudiate the sug-gestion, the lawyer somewhat flatly continued:"I don't say it's conclusive, you observe; farfrom it. But straws show ... and on the wholeit's eminently satisfactory for all parties thatthis dignified solution has been reached."

"Oh, eminently," Archer assented, pushing backthe paper.

A day or two later, on responding to a sum-mons from Mrs. Manson Mingott, his soul hadbeen more deeply tried.

He had found the old lady depressed andquerulous.

"You know she's deserted me?" she began atonce; and without waiting for his reply: "Oh,don't ask me why! She gave so many reasonsthat I've forgotten them all. My private belief isthat she couldn't face the boredom. At any ratethat's what Augusta and my daughters-in-lawthink. And I don't know that I altogether blameher. Olenski's a finished scoundrel; but life withhim must have been a good deal gayer than it isin Fifth Avenue. Not that the family wouldadmit that: they think Fifth Avenue is Heavenwith the rue de la Paix thrown in. And poorEllen, of course, has no idea of going back to

her husband. She held out as firmly as everagainst that. So she's to settle down in Pariswith that fool Medora.... Well, Paris is Paris;and you can keep a carriage there on next tonothing. But she was as gay as a bird, and Ishall miss her." Two tears, the parched tears ofthe old, rolled down her puffy cheeks and van-ished in the abysses of her bosom.

"All I ask is," she concluded, "that they should-n't bother me any more. I must really be al-lowed to digest my gruel...." And she twinkleda little wistfully at Archer.

It was that evening, on his return home, thatMay announced her intention of giving a fare-well dinner to her cousin. Madame Olenska'sname had not been pronounced between themsince the night of her flight to Washington; andArcher looked at his wife with surprise.

"A dinner—why?" he interrogated.

Her colour rose. "But you like Ellen—I thoughtyou'd be pleased."

"It's awfully nice—your putting it in that way.But I really don't see—"

"I mean to do it, Newland," she said, quietlyrising and going to her desk. "Here are the invi-tations all written. Mother helped me—sheagrees that we ought to." She paused, embar-rassed and yet smiling, and Archer suddenlysaw before him the embodied image of theFamily.

"Oh, all right," he said, staring with unseeingeyes at the list of guests that she had put in hishand.

When he entered the drawing-room beforedinner May was stooping over the fire and try-ing to coax the logs to burn in their unaccus-tomed setting of immaculate tiles.

The tall lamps were all lit, and Mr. van derLuyden's orchids had been conspicuously dis-posed in various receptacles of modern porce-lain and knobby silver. Mrs. Newland Archer'sdrawing-room was generally thought a greatsuccess. A gilt bamboo jardiniere, in which theprimulas and cinerarias were punctually re-newed, blocked the access to the bay window(where the old-fashioned would have preferreda bronze reduction of the Venus of Milo); thesofas and arm-chairs of pale brocade were clev-erly grouped about little plush tables denselycovered with silver toys, porcelain animals andefflorescent photograph frames; and tall rosy-shaded lamps shot up like tropical flowersamong the palms.

"I don't think Ellen has ever seen this roomlighted up," said May, rising flushed from herstruggle, and sending about her a glance ofpardonable pride. The brass tongs which shehad propped against the side of the chimney

fell with a crash that drowned her husband'sanswer; and before he could restore them Mr.and Mrs. van der Luyden were announced.

The other guests quickly followed, for it wasknown that the van der Luydens liked to dinepunctually. The room was nearly full, andArcher was engaged in showing to Mrs. Sel-fridge Merry a small highly-varnished Ver-beckhoven "Study of Sheep," which Mr. Wel-land had given May for Christmas, when hefound Madame Olenska at his side.

She was excessively pale, and her pallor madeher dark hair seem denser and heavier thanever. Perhaps that, or the fact that she hadwound several rows of amber beads about herneck, reminded him suddenly of the little EllenMingott he had danced with at children's par-ties, when Medora Manson had first broughther to New York.

The amber beads were trying to her complex-ion, or her dress was perhaps unbecoming: herface looked lustreless and almost ugly, and hehad never loved it as he did at that minute.Their hands met, and he thought he heard hersay: "Yes, we're sailing tomorrow in the Rus-sia—"; then there was an unmeaning noise ofopening doors, and after an interval May'svoice: "Newland! Dinner's been announced.Won't you please take Ellen in?"

Madame Olenska put her hand on his arm, andhe noticed that the hand was ungloved, andremembered how he had kept his eyes fixed onit the evening that he had sat with her in thelittle Twenty-third Street drawing-room. All thebeauty that had forsaken her face seemed tohave taken refuge in the long pale fingers andfaintly dimpled knuckles on his sleeve, and hesaid to himself: "If it were only to see her handagain I should have to follow her—."

It was only at an entertainment ostensibly of-fered to a "foreign visitor" that Mrs. van derLuyden could suffer the diminution of beingplaced on her host's left. The fact of MadameOlenska's "foreignness" could hardly have beenmore adroitly emphasised than by this farewelltribute; and Mrs. van der Luyden accepted herdisplacement with an affability which left nodoubt as to her approval. There were certainthings that had to be done, and if done at all,done handsomely and thoroughly; and one ofthese, in the old New York code, was the tribalrally around a kinswoman about to be elimi-nated from the tribe. There was nothing onearth that the Wellands and Mingotts wouldnot have done to proclaim their unalterableaffection for the Countess Olenska now that herpassage for Europe was engaged; and Archer,at the head of his table, sat marvelling at thesilent untiring activity with which her popular-ity had been retrieved, grievances against hersilenced, her past countenanced, and her pre-

sent irradiated by the family approval. Mrs.van der Luyden shone on her with the dim be-nevolence which was her nearest approach tocordiality, and Mr. van der Luyden, from hisseat at May's right, cast down the table glancesplainly intended to justify all the carnations hehad sent from Skuytercliff.

Archer, who seemed to be assisting at the scenein a state of odd imponderability, as if hefloated somewhere between chandelier andceiling, wondered at nothing so much as hisown share in the proceedings. As his glancetravelled from one placid well-fed face to an-other he saw all the harmless-looking peopleengaged upon May's canvas-backs as a band ofdumb conspirators, and himself and the palewoman on his right as the centre of their con-spiracy. And then it came over him, in a vastflash made up of many broken gleams, that toall of them he and Madame Olenska were lov-ers, lovers in the extreme sense peculiar to "for-

eign" vocabularies. He guessed himself to havebeen, for months, the centre of countless si-lently observing eyes and patiently listeningears; he understood that, by means as yet un-known to him, the separation between himselfand the partner of his guilt had been achieved,and that now the whole tribe had rallied abouthis wife on the tacit assumption that nobodyknew anything, or had ever imagined anything,and that the occasion of the entertainment wassimply May Archer's natural desire to take anaffectionate leave of her friend and cousin.

It was the old New York way of taking life"without effusion of blood": the way of peoplewho dreaded scandal more than disease, whoplaced decency above courage, and who con-sidered that nothing was more ill-bred than"scenes," except the behaviour of those whogave rise to them.

As these thoughts succeeded each other in hismind Archer felt like a prisoner in the centre of

an armed camp. He looked about the table, andguessed at the inexorableness of his captorsfrom the tone in which, over the asparagusfrom Florida, they were dealing with Beaufortand his wife. "It's to show me," he thought,"what would happen to ME—" and a deathlysense of the superiority of implication andanalogy over direct action, and of silence overrash words, closed in on him like the doors ofthe family vault.

He laughed, and met Mrs. van der Luyden'sstartled eyes.

"You think it laughable?" she said with apinched smile. "Of course poor Regina's idea ofremaining in New York has its ridiculous side, Isuppose;" and Archer muttered: "Of course."

At this point, he became conscious that Ma-dame Olenska's other neighbour had been en-gaged for some time with the lady on his right.At the same moment he saw that May, serenely

enthroned between Mr. van der Luyden andMr. Selfridge Merry, had cast a quick glancedown the table. It was evident that the host andthe lady on his right could not sit through thewhole meal in silence. He turned to MadameOlenska, and her pale smile met him. "Oh, dolet's see it through," it seemed to say.

"Did you find the journey tiring?" he asked in avoice that surprised him by its naturalness; andshe answered that, on the contrary, she hadseldom travelled with fewer discomforts.

"Except, you know, the dreadful heat in thetrain," she added; and he remarked that shewould not suffer from that particular hardshipin the country she was going to.

"I never," he declared with intensity, "was morenearly frozen than once, in April, in the trainbetween Calais and Paris."

She said she did not wonder, but remarkedthat, after all, one could always carry an extrarug, and that every form of travel had its hard-ships; to which he abruptly returned that hethought them all of no account compared withthe blessedness of getting away. She changedcolour, and he added, his voice suddenly risingin pitch: "I mean to do a lot of travelling myselfbefore long." A tremor crossed her face, andleaning over to Reggie Chivers, he cried out: "Isay, Reggie, what do you say to a trip roundthe world: now, next month, I mean? I'm gameif you are—" at which Mrs. Reggie piped upthat she could not think of letting Reggie go tillafter the Martha Washington Ball she was get-ting up for the Blind Asylum in Easter week;and her husband placidly observed that by thattime he would have to be practising for theInternational Polo match.

But Mr. Selfridge Merry had caught the phrase"round the world," and having once circled the

globe in his steam-yacht, he seized the oppor-tunity to send down the table several strikingitems concerning the shallowness of the Medi-terranean ports. Though, after all, he added, itdidn't matter; for when you'd seen Athens andSmyrna and Constantinople, what else wasthere? And Mrs. Merry said she could never betoo grateful to Dr. Bencomb for having madethem promise not to go to Naples on account ofthe fever.

"But you must have three weeks to do Indiaproperly," her husband conceded, anxious tohave it understood that he was no frivolousglobe-trotter.

And at this point the ladies went up to thedrawing-room.

In the library, in spite of weightier presences,Lawrence Lefferts predominated.

The talk, as usual, had veered around to theBeauforts, and even Mr. van der Luyden andMr. Selfridge Merry, installed in the honoraryarm-chairs tacitly reserved for them, paused tolisten to the younger man's philippic.

Never had Lefferts so abounded in the senti-ments that adorn Christian manhood and exaltthe sanctity of the home. Indignation lent him ascathing eloquence, and it was clear that if oth-ers had followed his example, and acted as hetalked, society would never have been weakenough to receive a foreign upstart like Beau-fort—no, sir, not even if he'd married a van derLuyden or a Lanning instead of a Dallas. Andwhat chance would there have been, Leffertswrathfully questioned, of his marrying intosuch a family as the Dallases, if he had not al-ready wormed his way into certain houses, aspeople like Mrs. Lemuel Struthers had man-aged to worm theirs in his wake? If societychose to open its doors to vulgar women the

harm was not great, though the gain wasdoubtful; but once it got in the way of tolerat-ing men of obscure origin and tainted wealththe end was total disintegration—and at nodistant date.

"If things go on at this pace," Lefferts thun-dered, looking like a young prophet dressed byPoole, and who had not yet been stoned, "weshall see our children fighting for invitations toswindlers' houses, and marrying Beaufort'sbastards."

"Oh, I say—draw it mild!" Reggie Chivers andyoung Newland protested, while Mr. SelfridgeMerry looked genuinely alarmed, and an ex-pression of pain and disgust settled on Mr. vander Luyden's sensitive face.

"Has he got any?" cried Mr. Sillerton Jackson,pricking up his ears; and while Lefferts tried toturn the question with a laugh, the old gentle-man twittered into Archer's ear: "Queer, those

fellows who are always wanting to set thingsright. The people who have the worst cooks arealways telling you they're poisoned when theydine out. But I hear there are pressing reasonsfor our friend Lawrence's diatribe:—typewriterthis time, I understand...."

The talk swept past Archer like some senselessriver running and running because it did notknow enough to stop. He saw, on the facesabout him, expressions of interest, amusementand even mirth. He listened to the youngermen's laughter, and to the praise of the ArcherMadeira, which Mr. van der Luyden and Mr.Merry were thoughtfully celebrating. Throughit all he was dimly aware of a general attitudeof friendliness toward himself, as if the guardof the prisoner he felt himself to be were tryingto soften his captivity; and the perception in-creased his passionate determination to be free.

In the drawing-room, where they presentlyjoined the ladies, he met May's triumphant

eyes, and read in them the conviction that eve-rything had "gone off" beautifully. She rosefrom Madame Olenska's side, and immediatelyMrs. van der Luyden beckoned the latter to aseat on the gilt sofa where she throned. Mrs.Selfridge Merry bore across the room to jointhem, and it became clear to Archer that herealso a conspiracy of rehabilitation and oblitera-tion was going on. The silent organisationwhich held his little world together was deter-mined to put itself on record as never for amoment having questioned the propriety ofMadame Olenska's conduct, or the complete-ness of Archer's domestic felicity. All theseamiable and inexorable persons were resolutelyengaged in pretending to each other that theyhad never heard of, suspected, or even con-ceived possible, the least hint to the contrary;and from this tissue of elaborate mutual dis-simulation Archer once more disengaged thefact that New York believed him to be MadameOlenska's lover. He caught the glitter of victory

in his wife's eyes, and for the first time under-stood that she shared the belief. The discoveryroused a laughter of inner devils that reverber-ated through all his efforts to discuss the Mar-tha Washington ball with Mrs. Reggie Chiversand little Mrs. Newland; and so the eveningswept on, running and running like a senselessriver that did not know how to stop.

At length he saw that Madame Olenska hadrisen and was saying good-bye. He understoodthat in a moment she would be gone, and triedto remember what he had said to her at dinner;but he could not recall a single word they hadexchanged.

She went up to May, the rest of the companymaking a circle about her as she advanced. Thetwo young women clasped hands; then Maybent forward and kissed her cousin.

"Certainly our hostess is much the handsomerof the two," Archer heard Reggie Chivers say in

an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and heremembered Beaufort's coarse sneer at May'sineffectual beauty.

A moment later he was in the hall, putting Ma-dame Olenska's cloak about her shoulders.

Through all his confusion of mind he had heldfast to the resolve to say nothing that mightstartle or disturb her. Convinced that no powercould now turn him from his purpose he hadfound strength to let events shape themselvesas they would. But as he followed MadameOlenska into the hall he thought with a suddenhunger of being for a moment alone with her atthe door of her carriage.

"Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at thatmoment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was beingmajestically inserted into her sables, said gen-tly: "We are driving dear Ellen home."

Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olen-ska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand,held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said.

"Good-bye—but I shall see you soon in Paris,"he answered aloud—it seemed to him that hehad shouted it.

"Oh," she murmured, "if you and May couldcome—!"

Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her hisarm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luy-den. For a moment, in the billowy darknessinside the big landau, he caught the dim oval ofa face, eyes shining steadily—and she wasgone.

As he went up the steps he crossed LawrenceLefferts coming down with his wife. Leffertscaught his host by the sleeve, drawing back tolet Gertrude pass.

"I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it beunderstood that I'm dining with you at the clubtomorrow night? Thanks so much, you oldbrick! Good-night."

"It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May ques-tioned from the threshold of the library.

Archer roused himself with a start. As soon asthe last carriage had driven away, he had comeup to the library and shut himself in, with thehope that his wife, who still lingered below,would go straight to her room. But there shestood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the facti-tious energy of one who has passed beyondfatigue.

"May I come and talk it over?" she asked.

"Of course, if you like. But you must be awfullysleepy—"

"No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with youa little."

"Very well," he said, pushing her chair near thefire.

She sat down and he resumed his seat; but nei-ther spoke for a long time. At length Archerbegan abruptly: "Since you're not tired, andwant to talk, there's something I must tell you. Itried to the other night—."

She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Some-thing about yourself?"

"About myself. You say you're not tired: well, Iam. Horribly tired ..."

In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh,I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've beenso wickedly overworked—"

"Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make abreak—"

"A break? To give up the law?"

"To go away, at any rate—at once. On a longtrip, ever so far off—away from everything—"

He paused, conscious that he had failed in hisattempt to speak with the indifference of a manwho longs for a change, and is yet too weary towelcome it. Do what he would, the chord ofeagerness vibrated. "Away from everything—"he repeated.

"Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. India—or Japan."

She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, hischin propped on his hands, he felt her warmlyand fragrantly hovering over him.

"As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unlessyou'll take me with you." And then, as he wassilent, she went on, in tones so clear and even-

ly-pitched that each separate syllable tappedlike a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if thedoctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid theywon't. For you see, Newland, I've been suresince this morning of something I've been solonging and hoping for—"

He looked up at her with a sick stare, and shesank down, all dew and roses, and hid her faceagainst his knee.

"Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to himwhile his cold hand stroked her hair.

There was a long pause, which the inner devilsfilled with strident laughter; then May freedherself from his arms and stood up.

"You didn't guess—?"

"Yes—I; no. That is, of course I hoped—"

They looked at each other for an instant andagain fell silent; then, turning his eyes from

hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told anyone else?"

"Only Mamma and your mother." She paused,and then added hurriedly, the blood flushingup to her forehead: "That is—and Ellen. Youknow I told you we'd had a long talk one after-noon—and how dear she was to me."

"Ah—" said Archer, his heart stopping.

He felt that his wife was watching him intently."Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?"

"Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort tocollect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago,wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't suretill today."

Her colour burned deeper, but she held hisgaze. "No; I wasn't sure then—but I told her Iwas. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed,her blue eyes wet with victory.

XXXIV.

Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in hislibrary in East Thirty-ninth Street.

He had just got back from a big official recep-tion for the inauguration of the new galleries atthe Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle ofthose great spaces crowded with the spoils ofthe ages, where the throng of fashion circulatedthrough a series of scientifically cataloguedtreasures, had suddenly pressed on a rustedspring of memory.

"Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnolarooms," he heard some one say; and instantlyeverything about him vanished, and he wassitting alone on a hard leather divan against aradiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin

cloak moved away down the meagrely-fittedvista of the old Museum.

The vision had roused a host of other associa-tions, and he sat looking with new eyes at thelibrary which, for over thirty years, had beenthe scene of his solitary musings and of all thefamily confabulations.

It was the room in which most of the real thingsof his life had happened. There his wife, nearlytwenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with ablushing circumlocution that would havecaused the young women of the new genera-tion to smile, the news that she was to have achild; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, toodelicate to be taken to church in midwinter,had been christened by their old friend the Bi-shop of New York, the ample magnificent ir-replaceable Bishop, so long the pride and or-nament of his diocese. There Dallas had firststaggered across the floor shouting "Dad,"while May and the nurse laughed behind the

door; there their second child, Mary (who wasso like her mother), had announced her en-gagement to the dullest and most reliable ofReggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archerhad kissed her through her wedding veil beforethey went down to the motor which was tocarry them to Grace Church—for in a worldwhere all else had reeled on its foundations the"Grace Church wedding" remained an un-changed institution.

It was in the library that he and May had al-ways discussed the future of the children: thestudies of Dallas and his young brother Bill,Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplish-ments," and passion for sport and philan-thropy, and the vague leanings toward "art"which had finally landed the restless and curi-ous Dallas in the office of a rising New Yorkarchitect.

The young men nowadays were emancipatingthemselves from the law and business and tak-

ing up all sorts of new things. If they were notabsorbed in state politics or municipal reform,the chances were that they were going in forCentral American archaeology, for architectureor landscape-engineering; taking a keen andlearned interest in the prerevolutionary build-ings of their own country, studying and adapt-ing Georgian types, and protesting at the mean-ingless use of the word "Colonial." Nobodynowadays had "Colonial" houses except themillionaire grocers of the suburbs.

But above all—sometimes Archer put it aboveall—it was in that library that the Governor ofNew York, coming down from Albany oneevening to dine and spend the night, hadturned to his host, and said, banging hisclenched fist on the table and gnashing his eye-glasses: "Hang the professional politician!You're the kind of man the country wants,Archer. If the stable's ever to be cleaned out,

men like you have got to lend a hand in thecleaning."

"Men like you—" how Archer had glowed atthe phrase! How eagerly he had risen up at thecall! It was an echo of Ned Winsett's old appealto roll his sleeves up and get down into themuck; but spoken by a man who set the exam-ple of the gesture, and whose summons to fol-low him was irresistible.

Archer, as he looked back, was not sure thatmen like himself WERE what his countryneeded, at least in the active service to whichTheodore Roosevelt had pointed; in fact, therewas reason to think it did not, for after a year inthe State Assembly he had not been re-elected,and had dropped back thankfully into obscureif useful municipal work, and from that againto the writing of occasional articles in one of thereforming weeklies that were trying to shakethe country out of its apathy. It was littleenough to look back on; but when he remem-

bered to what the young men of his generationand his set had looked forward—the narrowgroove of money-making, sport and society towhich their vision had been limited—even hissmall contribution to the new state of thingsseemed to count, as each brick counts in a well-built wall. He had done little in public life; hewould always be by nature a contemplativeand a dilettante; but he had had high things tocontemplate, great things to delight in; and onegreat man's friendship to be his strength andpride.

He had been, in short, what people were be-ginning to call "a good citizen." In New York,for many years past, every new movement,philanthropic, municipal or artistic, had takenaccount of his opinion and wanted his name.People said: "Ask Archer" when there was aquestion of starting the first school for crippledchildren, reorganising the Museum of Art,founding the Grolier Club, inaugurating the

new Library, or getting up a new society ofchamber music. His days were full, and theywere filled decently. He supposed it was all aman ought to ask.

Something he knew he had missed: the flowerof life. But he thought of it now as a thing sounattainable and improbable that to have re-pined would have been like despairing becauseone had not drawn the first prize in a lottery.There were a hundred million tickets in HISlottery, and there was only one prize; thechances had been too decidedly against him.When he thought of Ellen Olenska it was ab-stractly, serenely, as one might think of someimaginary beloved in a book or a picture: shehad become the composite vision of all that hehad missed. That vision, faint and tenuous as itwas, had kept him from thinking of otherwomen. He had been what was called a faithfulhusband; and when May had suddenly died—carried off by the infectious pneumonia

through which she had nursed their youngestchild—he had honestly mourned her. Theirlong years together had shown him that it didnot so much matter if marriage was a dull duty,as long as it kept the dignity of a duty: lapsingfrom that, it became a mere battle of ugly appe-tites. Looking about him, he honoured his ownpast, and mourned for it. After all, there wasgood in the old ways.

His eyes, making the round of the room—doneover by Dallas with English mezzotints, Chip-pendale cabinets, bits of chosen blue-and-whiteand pleasantly shaded electric lamps—cameback to the old Eastlake writing-table that hehad never been willing to banish, and to hisfirst photograph of May, which still kept itsplace beside his inkstand.

There she was, tall, round-bosomed and wil-lowy, in her starched muslin and flapping Leg-horn, as he had seen her under the orange-treesin the Mission garden. And as he had seen her

that day, so she had remained; never quite atthe same height, yet never far below it: gener-ous, faithful, unwearied; but so lacking in im-agination, so incapable of growth, that theworld of her youth had fallen into pieces andrebuilt itself without her ever being consciousof the change. This hard bright blindness hadkept her immediate horizon apparently unal-tered. Her incapacity to recognise change madeher children conceal their views from her asArcher concealed his; there had been, from thefirst, a joint pretence of sameness, a kind ofinnocent family hypocrisy, in which father andchildren had unconsciously collaborated. Andshe had died thinking the world a good place,full of loving and harmonious households likeher own, and resigned to leave it because shewas convinced that, whatever happened, New-land would continue to inculcate in Dallas thesame principles and prejudices which hadshaped his parents' lives, and that Dallas inturn (when Newland followed her) would

transmit the sacred trust to little Bill. And ofMary she was sure as of her own self. So, hav-ing snatched little Bill from the grave, and giv-en her life in the effort, she went contentedly toher place in the Archer vault in St. Mark's,where Mrs. Archer already lay safe from theterrifying "trend" which her daughter-in-lawhad never even become aware of.

Opposite May's portrait stood one of herdaughter. Mary Chivers was as tall and fair asher mother, but large-waisted, flat-chested andslightly slouching, as the altered fashion re-quired. Mary Chivers's mighty feats of athletic-ism could not have been performed with thetwenty-inch waist that May Archer's azure sashso easily spanned. And the difference seemedsymbolic; the mother's life had been as closelygirt as her figure. Mary, who was no less con-ventional, and no more intelligent, yet led alarger life and held more tolerant views. Therewas good in the new order too.

The telephone clicked, and Archer, turningfrom the photographs, unhooked the transmit-ter at his elbow. How far they were from thedays when the legs of the brass-buttoned mes-senger boy had been New York's only means ofquick communication!

"Chicago wants you."

Ah—it must be a long-distance from Dallas,who had been sent to Chicago by his firm totalk over the plan of the Lakeside palace theywere to build for a young millionaire withideas. The firm always sent Dallas on such er-rands.

"Hallo, Dad—Yes: Dallas. I say—how do youfeel about sailing on Wednesday? Mauretania:Yes, next Wednesday as ever is. Our clientwants me to look at some Italian gardens beforewe settle anything, and has asked me to nipover on the next boat. I've got to be back on thefirst of June—" the voice broke into a joyful

conscious laugh—"so we must look alive. I say,Dad, I want your help: do come."

Dallas seemed to be speaking in the room: thevoice was as near by and natural as if he hadbeen lounging in his favourite arm-chair by thefire. The fact would not ordinarily have sur-prised Archer, for long-distance telephoninghad become as much a matter of course as elec-tric lighting and five-day Atlantic voyages. Butthe laugh did startle him; it still seemed won-derful that across all those miles and miles ofcountry—forest, river, mountain, prairie, roar-ing cities and busy indifferent millions—Dallas's laugh should be able to say: "Of course,whatever happens, I must get back on the first,because Fanny Beaufort and I are to be marriedon the fifth."

The voice began again: "Think it over? No, sir:not a minute. You've got to say yes now. Whynot, I'd like to know? If you can allege a singlereason—No; I knew it. Then it's a go, eh? Be-

cause I count on you to ring up the Cunardoffice first thing tomorrow; and you'd betterbook a return on a boat from Marseilles. I say,Dad; it'll be our last time together, in this kindof way—. Oh, good! I knew you would."

Chicago rang off, and Archer rose and began topace up and down the room.

It would be their last time together in this kindof way: the boy was right. They would havelots of other "times" after Dallas's marriage, hisfather was sure; for the two were born com-rades, and Fanny Beaufort, whatever one mightthink of her, did not seem likely to interferewith their intimacy. On the contrary, from whathe had seen of her, he thought she would benaturally included in it. Still, change waschange, and differences were differences, andmuch as he felt himself drawn toward his fu-ture daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seizethis last chance of being alone with his boy.

There was no reason why he should not seizeit, except the profound one that he had lost thehabit of travel. May had disliked to move ex-cept for valid reasons, such as taking the child-ren to the sea or in the mountains: she couldimagine no other motive for leaving the housein Thirty-ninth Street or their comfortable quar-ters at the Wellands' in Newport. After Dallashad taken his degree she had thought it herduty to travel for six months; and the wholefamily had made the old-fashioned tourthrough England, Switzerland and Italy. Theirtime being limited (no one knew why) they hadomitted France. Archer remembered Dallas'swrath at being asked to contemplate MontBlanc instead of Rheims and Chartres. ButMary and Bill wanted mountain-climbing, andhad already yawned their way in Dallas's wakethrough the English cathedrals; and May, al-ways fair to her children, had insisted on hold-ing the balance evenly between their athleticand artistic proclivities. She had indeed pro-

posed that her husband should go to Paris for afortnight, and join them on the Italian lakesafter they had "done" Switzerland; but Archerhad declined. "We'll stick together," he said;and May's face had brightened at his settingsuch a good example to Dallas.

Since her death, nearly two years before, therehad been no reason for his continuing in thesame routine. His children had urged him totravel: Mary Chivers had felt sure it would dohim good to go abroad and "see the galleries."The very mysteriousness of such a cure madeher the more confident of its efficacy. But Ar-cher had found himself held fast by habit, bymemories, by a sudden startled shrinking fromnew things.

Now, as he reviewed his past, he saw into whata deep rut he had sunk. The worst of doingone's duty was that it apparently unfitted onefor doing anything else. At least that was theview that the men of his generation had taken.

The trenchant divisions between right andwrong, honest and dishonest, respectable andthe reverse, had left so little scope for the unfo-reseen. There are moments when a man's im-agination, so easily subdued to what it lives in,suddenly rises above its daily level, and sur-veys the long windings of destiny. Archer hungthere and wondered....

What was left of the little world he had grownup in, and whose standards had bent andbound him? He remembered a sneering proph-ecy of poor Lawrence Lefferts's, uttered yearsago in that very room: "If things go on at thisrate, our children will be marrying Beaufort'sbastards."

It was just what Archer's eldest son, the prideof his life, was doing; and nobody wondered orreproved. Even the boy's Aunt Janey, who stilllooked so exactly as she used to in her elderlyyouth, had taken her mother's emeralds andseed-pearls out of their pink cotton-wool, and

carried them with her own twitching hands tothe future bride; and Fanny Beaufort, instead oflooking disappointed at not receiving a "set"from a Paris jeweller, had exclaimed at theirold-fashioned beauty, and declared that whenshe wore them she should feel like an Isabeyminiature.

Fanny Beaufort, who had appeared in NewYork at eighteen, after the death of her parents,had won its heart much as Madame Olenskahad won it thirty years earlier; only instead ofbeing distrustful and afraid of her, society tookher joyfully for granted. She was pretty, amus-ing and accomplished: what more did any onewant? Nobody was narrow-minded enough torake up against her the half-forgotten facts ofher father's past and her own origin. Only theolder people remembered so obscure an inci-dent in the business life of New York as Beau-fort's failure, or the fact that after his wife'sdeath he had been quietly married to the noto-

rious Fanny Ring, and had left the country withhis new wife, and a little girl who inherited herbeauty. He was subsequently heard of in Con-stantinople, then in Russia; and a dozen yearslater American travellers were handsomelyentertained by him in Buenos Ayres, where herepresented a large insurance agency. He andhis wife died there in the odour of prosperity;and one day their orphaned daughter had ap-peared in New York in charge of May Archer'ssister-in-law, Mrs. Jack Welland, whose hus-band had been appointed the girl's guardian.The fact threw her into almost cousinly rela-tionship with Newland Archer's children, andnobody was surprised when Dallas's engage-ment was announced.

Nothing could more dearly give the measure ofthe distance that the world had travelled. Peo-ple nowadays were too busy—busy with re-forms and "movements," with fads and fetishesand frivolities—to bother much about their

neighbours. And of what account was any-body's past, in the huge kaleidoscope where allthe social atoms spun around on the sameplane?

Newland Archer, looking out of his hotel win-dow at the stately gaiety of the Paris streets, felthis heart beating with the confusion and eager-ness of youth.

It was long since it had thus plunged andreared under his widening waistcoat, leavinghim, the next minute, with an empty breast andhot temples. He wondered if it was thus thathis son's conducted itself in the presence ofMiss Fanny Beaufort—and decided that it wasnot. "It functions as actively, no doubt, but therhythm is different," he reflected, recalling thecool composure with which the young man hadannounced his engagement, and taken forgranted that his family would approve.

"The difference is that these young people takeit for granted that they're going to get whateverthey want, and that we almost always took itfor granted that we shouldn't. Only, I won-der—the thing one's so certain of in advance:can it ever make one's heart beat as wildly?"

It was the day after their arrival in Paris, andthe spring sunshine held Archer in his openwindow, above the wide silvery prospect of thePlace Vendome. One of the things he had stipu-lated—almost the only one—when he hadagreed to come abroad with Dallas, was that, inParis, he shouldn't be made to go to one of thenewfangled "palaces."

"Oh, all right—of course," Dallas good-naturedly agreed. "I'll take you to some jollyold-fashioned place—the Bristol say—" leavinghis father speechless at hearing that the cen-tury-long home of kings and emperors wasnow spoken of as an old-fashioned inn, where

one went for its quaint inconveniences and lin-gering local colour.

Archer had pictured often enough, in the firstimpatient years, the scene of his return to Paris;then the personal vision had faded, and he hadsimply tried to see the city as the setting of Ma-dame Olenska's life. Sitting alone at night in hislibrary, after the household had gone to bed, hehad evoked the radiant outbreak of springdown the avenues of horse-chestnuts, the flow-ers and statues in the public gardens, the whiffof lilacs from the flower-carts, the majestic rollof the river under the great bridges, and the lifeof art and study and pleasure that filled eachmighty artery to bursting. Now the spectaclewas before him in its glory, and as he lookedout on it he felt shy, old-fashioned, inadequate:a mere grey speck of a man compared with theruthless magnificent fellow he had dreamed ofbeing....

Dallas's hand came down cheerily on hisshoulder. "Hullo, father: this is something like,isn't it?" They stood for a while looking out insilence, and then the young man continued: "Bythe way, I've got a message for you: the Count-ess Olenska expects us both at half-past five."

He said it lightly, carelessly, as he might haveimparted any casual item of information, suchas the hour at which their train was to leave forFlorence the next evening. Archer looked athim, and thought he saw in his gay young eyesa gleam of his great-grandmother Mingott'smalice.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Dallas pursued. "Fannymade me swear to do three things while I wasin Paris: get her the score of the last Debussysongs, go to the Grand-Guignol and see Ma-dame Olenska. You know she was awfullygood to Fanny when Mr. Beaufort sent her overfrom Buenos Ayres to the Assomption. Fannyhadn't any friends in Paris, and Madame

Olenska used to be kind to her and trot herabout on holidays. I believe she was a greatfriend of the first Mrs. Beaufort's. And she's ourcousin, of course. So I rang her up this morn-ing, before I went out, and told her you and Iwere here for two days and wanted to see her."

Archer continued to stare at him. "You told herI was here?"

"Of course—why not?" Dallas's eye brows wentup whimsically. Then, getting no answer, heslipped his arm through his father's with a con-fidential pressure.

"I say, father: what was she like?"

Archer felt his colour rise under his son's un-abashed gaze. "Come, own up: you and shewere great pals, weren't you? Wasn't she mostawfully lovely?"

"Lovely? I don't know. She was different."

"Ah—there you have it! That's what it alwayscomes to, doesn't it? When she comes, SHE'SDIFFERENT—and one doesn't know why. It'sexactly what I feel about Fanny."

His father drew back a step, releasing his arm."About Fanny? But, my dear fellow—I shouldhope so! Only I don't see—"

"Dash it, Dad, don't be prehistoric! Wasn'tshe—once—your Fanny?"

Dallas belonged body and soul to the new gen-eration. He was the first-born of Newland andMay Archer, yet it had never been possible toinculcate in him even the rudiments of reserve."What's the use of making mysteries? It onlymakes people want to nose 'em out," he alwaysobjected when enjoined to discretion. But Ar-cher, meeting his eyes, saw the filial light undertheir banter.

"My Fanny?"

"Well, the woman you'd have chucked every-thing for: only you didn't," continued his sur-prising son.

"I didn't," echoed Archer with a kind of solem-nity.

"No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But moth-er said—"

"Your mother?"

"Yes: the day before she died. It was when shesent for me alone—you remember? She said sheknew we were safe with you, and alwayswould be, because once, when she asked youto, you'd given up the thing you most wanted."

Archer received this strange communication insilence. His eyes remained unseeingly fixed onthe thronged sunlit square below the window.At length he said in a low voice: "She neverasked me."

"No. I forgot. You never did ask each other any-thing, did you? And you never told each otheranything. You just sat and watched each other,and guessed at what was going on underneath.A deaf-and-dumb asylum, in fact! Well, I backyour generation for knowing more about eachother's private thoughts than we ever have timeto find out about our own.—I say, Dad," Dallasbroke off, "you're not angry with me? If youare, let's make it up and go and lunch at He-nri's. I've got to rush out to Versailles after-ward."

Archer did not accompany his son to Versailles.He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitaryroamings through Paris. He had to deal all atonce with the packed regrets and stifled memo-ries of an inarticulate lifetime.

After a little while he did not regret Dallas'sindiscretion. It seemed to take an iron bandfrom his heart to know that, after all, some onehad guessed and pitied.... And that it should

have been his wife moved him indescribably.Dallas, for all his affectionate insight, wouldnot have understood that. To the boy, no doubt,the episode was only a pathetic instance of vainfrustration, of wasted forces. But was it reallyno more? For a long time Archer sat on a benchin the Champs Elysees and wondered, whilethe stream of life rolled by....

A few streets away, a few hours away, EllenOlenska waited. She had never gone back toher husband, and when he had died, someyears before, she had made no change in herway of living. There was nothing now to keepher and Archer apart—and that afternoon hewas to see her.

He got up and walked across the Place de laConcorde and the Tuileries gardens to the Lou-vre. She had once told him that she often wentthere, and he had a fancy to spend the interven-ing time in a place where he could think of heras perhaps having lately been. For an hour or

more he wandered from gallery to gallerythrough the dazzle of afternoon light, and oneby one the pictures burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with thelong echoes of beauty. After all, his life hadbeen too starved....

Suddenly, before an effulgent Titian, he foundhimself saying: "But I'm only fifty-seven—" andthen he turned away. For such summer dreamsit was too late; but surely not for a quiet harvestof friendship, of comradeship, in the blessedhush of her nearness.

He went back to the hotel, where he and Dallaswere to meet; and together they walked againacross the Place de la Concorde and over thebridge that leads to the Chamber of Deputies.

Dallas, unconscious of what was going on inhis father's mind, was talking excitedly andabundantly of Versailles. He had had but oneprevious glimpse of it, during a holiday trip in

which he had tried to pack all the sights he hadbeen deprived of when he had had to go withthe family to Switzerland; and tumultuous en-thusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped eachother up on his lips.

As Archer listened, his sense of inadequacy andinexpressiveness increased. The boy was notinsensitive, he knew; but he had the facility andself-confidence that came of looking at fate notas a master but as an equal. "That's it: they feelequal to things—they know their way about,"he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesmanof the new generation which had swept awayall the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts and the danger-signal.

Suddenly Dallas stopped short, grasping hisfather's arm. "Oh, by Jove," he exclaimed.

They had come out into the great tree-plantedspace before the Invalides. The dome of Man-sart floated ethereally above the budding trees

and the long grey front of the building: draw-ing up into itself all the rays of afternoon light,it hung there like the visible symbol of therace's glory.

Archer knew that Madame Olenska lived in asquare near one of the avenues radiating fromthe Invalides; and he had pictured the quarteras quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the cen-tral splendour that lit it up. Now, by somequeer process of association, that golden lightbecame for him the pervading illumination inwhich she lived. For nearly thirty years, herlife—of which he knew so strangely little—hadbeen spent in this rich atmosphere that he al-ready felt to be too dense and yet too stimulat-ing for his lungs. He thought of the theatres shemust have been to, the pictures she must havelooked at, the sober and splendid old housesshe must have frequented, the people she musthave talked with, the incessant stir of ideas,curiosities, images and associations thrown out

by an intensely social race in a setting of im-memorial manners; and suddenly he remem-bered the young Frenchman who had once saidto him: "Ah, good conversation—there is noth-ing like it, is there?"

Archer had not seen M. Riviere, or heard ofhim, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gavethe measure of his ignorance of Madame Olen-ska's existence. More than half a lifetime di-vided them, and she had spent the long intervalamong people he did not know, in a society hebut faintly guessed at, in conditions he wouldnever wholly understand. During that time hehad been living with his youthful memory ofher; but she had doubtless had other and moretangible companionship. Perhaps she too hadkept her memory of him as something apart;but if she had, it must have been like a relic in asmall dim chapel, where there was not time topray every day....

They had crossed the Place des Invalides, andwere walking down one of the thoroughfaresflanking the building. It was a quiet quarter,after all, in spite of its splendour and its history;and the fact gave one an idea of the riches Parishad to draw on, since such scenes as this wereleft to the few and the indifferent.

The day was fading into a soft sun-shot haze,pricked here and there by a yellow electriclight, and passers were rare in the little squareinto which they had turned. Dallas stoppedagain, and looked up.

"It must be here," he said, slipping his armthrough his father's with a movement fromwhich Archer's shyness did not shrink; andthey stood together looking up at the house.

It was a modern building, without distinctivecharacter, but many-windowed, and pleasantlybalconied up its wide cream-coloured front. Onone of the upper balconies, which hung well

above the rounded tops of the horse-chestnutsin the square, the awnings were still lowered,as though the sun had just left it.

"I wonder which floor—?" Dallas conjectured;and moving toward the porte-cochere he puthis head into the porter's lodge, and came backto say: "The fifth. It must be the one with theawnings."

Archer remained motionless, gazing at the up-per windows as if the end of their pilgrimagehad been attained.

"I say, you know, it's nearly six," his son atlength reminded him.

The father glanced away at an empty benchunder the trees.

"I believe I'll sit there a moment," he said.

"Why—aren't you well?" his son exclaimed.

"Oh, perfectly. But I should like you, please, togo up without me."

Dallas paused before him, visibly bewildered."But, I say, Dad: do you mean you won't comeup at all?"

"I don't know," said Archer slowly.

"If you don't she won't understand."

"Go, my boy; perhaps I shall follow you."

Dallas gave him a long look through the twi-light.

"But what on earth shall I say?"

"My dear fellow, don't you always know whatto say?" his father rejoined with a smile.

"Very well. I shall say you're old-fashioned, andprefer walking up the five flights because youdon't like lifts."

His father smiled again. "Say I'm old-fashioned:that's enough."

Dallas looked at him again, and then, with anincredulous gesture, passed out of sight underthe vaulted doorway.

Archer sat down on the bench and continued togaze at the awninged balcony. He calculatedthe time it would take his son to be carried upin the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, andbe admitted to the hall, and then ushered intothe drawing-room. He pictured Dallas enteringthat room with his quick assured step and hisdelightful smile, and wondered if the peoplewere right who said that his boy "took afterhim."

Then he tried to see the persons already in theroom—for probably at that sociable hour therewould be more than one—and among them adark lady, pale and dark, who would look upquickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand

with three rings on it.... He thought she wouldbe sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, withazaleas banked behind her on a table.

"It's more real to me here than if I went up," hesuddenly heard himself say; and the fear lestthat last shadow of reality should lose its edgekept him rooted to his seat as the minutes suc-ceeded each other.

He sat for a long time on the bench in the thick-ening dusk, his eyes never turning from thebalcony. At length a light shone through thewindows, and a moment later a man-servantcame out on the balcony, drew up the awnings,and closed the shutters.

At that, as if it had been the signal he waitedfor, Newland Archer got up slowly and walkedback alone to his hotel.