HIS FORTUNATE GRACE

His Fortunate Grace

Gertrude Atherton

Author of A Whirl Asunder, The Doomswoman,
Patience Sparhawk and Her Times,
Before The Gringo Came, Etc.

New York
D. Appleton and Company
1897

TO
ALEECE VAN BERGEN.

HIS FORTUNATE GRACE.

CHAPTER I.

“Are you quite sure?” Mr. Forbes laid down his newspaper, and looked with slightly extended mouth at his daughter who leaned forward in an attitude of suppressed energy, her hands clasped on the edge of the breakfast-table. The heiress of many millions was not handsome: her features were large and her complexion dull; but she had the carriage and ‘air’ of the New York girl of fashion, and wore a French morning-toilette which would have ameliorated a Gorgon.

“Quite sure, papa.”

“I suppose you have studied the question exhaustively.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I have read Karl Marx and Henry George and a lot of others. I suppose you have not forgotten that I belong to a club of girls who aspire to be something more than fashionable butterflies, and that we read together?”

“And you are also positive that you wish me to divide my fortune with my fellow-men, and deprive you of the pleasant position of heiress?”

“Perfectly positive,” firmly. “It is terrible, terrible to think of the starving thousands. I feel it my duty to tell you, papa, that if you do not do this yourself, I shall—when—when—but I cannot even think of that.”

“No; don’t worry about it. I’m good for twenty or thirty years yet——”

“You are the handsomest and most distinguished-looking man in New York.”

“Thanks. To proceed: I should say that you are likely to be several things meanwhile. I don’t know that I shall even take the trouble to alter my will. Still, I may—that is unless you convert me. And you are also convinced that women should have the vote?”

“Yes! Yes! indeed I am. I know all the arguments for and against. I’ve heard and read everything. You see, if we get the vote we can bring Socialism about quite easily.”

“Without the slightest difficulty, I should say, considering the homogeneity of the feminine mind.”

“You darling sarcastic thing. But can’t you see what weight such women as we are interesting in the cause must have? We have carefully excluded the nouveau riche; only the very oldest and most notable names will be on our petition when we get it up.”

“Oh, you are going to get up a petition? Well, let that pass for the present. Suppose you fall in love and want to marry?”

“I shall tell him everything. What I intend to make of my life—do with what wealth I have at my disposal. If he does not sympathize with me and agree to my plans, he must go. A woman’s chief end is not matrimony.”

“I need not ask if you have ever been in love?”

“Oh, of course, I want to be, dreadfully. All women do—even we advanced women—now, papa! I don’t love you quite so well when you smile like that. I am twenty-one, and that is quite old for a girl who has been highly educated, has travelled, and been out two years. I have a right to call myself advanced, because I have gone deliberately into the race, and have read up a great deal, even if I have as yet accomplished nothing. Exactly how much are you worth, papa?”

“Broadly speaking, about thirty millions. As a great deal of that is in railroad and other stock, I am liable to be worth much less any day; much is also in land, which is worth only what it will bring. Still, I should say that I am reasonably sure of a fair amount.”

“It is terrible, papa! All that land! Do give some of it at least to the poor dear people—I assure you we feel that we have taken them under our wing, and have grown quite sentimental over them. Mr. George would tell you what to do, at once. That man’s very baggy knees fascinate me: he is so magnificently in earnest. When he scolded us all for being rich, the other day at the meeting, I loved him.”

“It is a great relief to me that George is a married man. Well, my dear, your allowance is ten thousand dollars a year. Do what you please with it, and come to me if your fads and whims demand more. God forbid that I should stand in the way of any woman’s happiness. By the by, what does your mother think of this business?”

“She is most unsympathetic.”

“So I should imagine,” said Mr. Forbes, drily. “Your mother is the cleverest woman I know.”

CHAPTER II.

After luncheon, Miss Forbes hied herself to a drawing-room meeting in behalf of Socialism. Despite the fact that she had elected the rôle of mental muscularity, she gave studious application to her attire: her position and all that pertained to it were her enduring religion; the interests of the flashing seasons were unconsciously patronised rather than assimilated. As she walked up the Avenue toward the house of her friend, Mrs. Latimer Burr, she looked like a well-grown lad masquerading in a very smart outfit of brown tweed, so erect and soldierly was her carriage, so independent her little stride. A bunch of violets was pinned to her muff, another at her throat, and she wore a severe little toque instead of the picture-hat she usually affected.

She smiled as she swung along, and one or two women looked back at her and sighed. She was quite happy. She had never known an ungratified wish; she was spoken of in the newspapers as one of the few intellectual young women in New York society; and now she had a really serious object in life. She felt little spasms of gratification that she had been born to set the world to rights—she and a few others: she felt that she was not selfish, for she grudged no one a share in the honours.

When she reached Mrs. Burr’s house, high on the Avenue, and overlooking the naked trees and the glittering white of the Park, she found that other toilettes had taken less time than hers: several of her friends complimented the occasion with a punctuality which she commended without envy.

The large drawing-room, which was to be the scene of operations, was a marvellous combination of every pale colour known to nature and art, and looked expectant of white-wigged dames, sparkling with satin and diamonds, tripping the mazes of the minuet with gentlemen as courtly as their dress was rich and colourous. But only a half-dozen extremely smart young women of the hoary Nineteenth Century sat in a group, talking as fast as seals on a rock; and the slim little hostess was compactly gowned in pearl-grey cloth, her sleek head dressed in the fashion of the moment.

She came forward, a lorgnette held close to her eyes. “How dear of you, Augusta, to be so prompt!” she said, kissing her lightly. “Dear me! I wish I could be as frightfully in earnest as the rest of you, but for the life of me I can’t help feeling that it’s all a jolly good lark—perhaps that’s the effect of my ex-sister-in-law, Patience Sparhawk, who says we are only playing at being alive. But we can’t all have seventeen different experiences before we are twenty-four, including a sojourn in Murders’ Row, and a frantic love affair with one’s own husband——”

“Tell me, Hal, what is a woman like who has been through all that?” interrupted Augusta, her ears pricking with girlish curiosity. “Is she eccentric? Does she look old—or something?”

“She’s not much like us,” said Mrs. Burr, briefly. “You’ll meet her in time; it’s odd you never happened to, even if you weren’t out. Of course she can’t go out for awhile yet; it would hardly be good taste, even if she wanted to.”

“How interestingly dreadful to have had such a thing in the family. But I should think she would be just the one to take life seriously.”

“Oh, she does; that’s the reason she doesn’t waste any time. Here is someone else. Who is it?—oh, Mary Gallatin.”

Augusta joined the group.

“Where is Mabel Creighton?” demanded one of the girls. “I thought she was coming with you.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Miss Forbes, with an air of elaborate indifference, drew her eyelids together as if to focus a half-dozen women that were entering. “The Duke of Bosworth arrives to-day, and she has stayed at home to receive him.”

“Augusta! What do you mean? What Duke of Bosworth?”

“There is only one duke of the same name at a time, my dear. This is the Duke of Bosworth of Aire Castle—and I suppose a half-dozen others—of the West Riding, of the district of Craven, of the County of Yorkshire, England. He has five other titles, I believe; and enjoys the honour of the friendship of Fletcher Cuyler.”

“Well!”

“Mabel met him abroad, and got to know him quite well; and when he wrote her that he should arrive to-day, she thought it only hospitable to stay at home and receive him.”

“Are they engaged? Augusta, do be an angel.”

“I am sure I have not the slightest idea whether they are engaged or not. Mabel always has a flirtation on with somebody.”

“What is he like? How perfectly funny! How quiet she has kept him. Is he good-looking—or—well, just like some of the others?”

“Mabel has merely mentioned him to me, and I have not seen his photograph.”

“She’d make a lovely bride; and Mrs. Creighton has such exquisite taste—St. Thomas’ would be a dream, I suppose he’ll wear a grey suit with the trousers turned up and a pink shirt. I do hope he won’t walk up the Avenue with her with a big black cigar in his mouth.”

“Is that what we came here to talk about?” asked Miss Forbes, severely. “What difference does it make what a foreign titled thing looks like? We are here to discuss a question which will one day exterminate the entire order.”

“True,” exclaimed a dark-haired distinguished-looking girl who was mainly responsible for the intellectual reputation of her set, albeit not exempt from the witchery of fads. “We must stop gossiping and attend to business. Do you know that I am expected to speak? How am I to collect my thoughts?”

“You have so many, Alex,” said Miss Forbes, admiringly, “that it wouldn’t matter if a few got loose. Have you prepared your speech? I have mine by heart.”

“I have thought it out. I don’t think I shall be frightened; it is really such a very serious matter.”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“Oh, we’ve talked it over, but I can’t say that he agrees with us.”

Augusta laughed consciously. “There are probably some points of similarity in our experiences. But we must be firm.”

Some thirty women, gowned with fashionable simplicity, had arrived, and were seated in a large double semi-circle. They looked alert and serious. Mrs. Burr drifted aimlessly about for a moment, then paused before a table and tapped it smartly with her lorgnette.

“I suppose we may as well begin,” she said. “I believe we are going to discuss to-day the—a—the advisability of women having the vote—franchise. Also Socialism. Miss Maitland, who has thoroughly digested both subjects, and many more, has kindly consented to speak; and Dr. Broadhead is coming in later to give us one of his good scoldings. Alexandra, will you open the ball?”

“Hal, you are incorrigible,” exclaimed Miss Maitland, drawing her dark brows together. “At least you might pretend to be in earnest. We think it very good of you to lend us your house, and we are delighted that you managed Dr. Broadhead so cleverly, but we don’t wish to be flouted, for we, at least, are in earnest.”

“Alexis, if you scold me, I shall cry. And I’ll now be serious—I swear it. You know I admire you to death. Your French poetry is adorable; you have more ideas for decorating than any professional in New York, and you fence like a real Amazon. I am simply dying to hear you make a speech; but first let me see if Latimer is hiding anywhere.”

She went out into the hall and returned in a moment. “It would be just like Latimer to get Fletcher Cuyler and listen, and then guy us. Now, Alexandra, proceed,” and she seated herself, and applied her lorgnette to her bright quizzical eyes.

Miss Maitland, somewhat embarrassed by her introduction, stepped to the middle of the room and faced her audience. She gave a quick sidelong glance at her skirts. They stood out like a yacht under full sail. She was a fine looking girl, far above woman’s height, with dignified features, a bright happy expression, and a soft colour. She was a trifle nervous, and opened her jacket to gain time, throwing it back.

“That’s a Paquin blouse,” whispered a girl confidently to Augusta.

“Sh-h!” said Miss Forbes severely.

Miss Maitland showed no further symptom of nervousness. She clasped her hands lightly and did not make a gesture nor shift her position during her speech. Her repose was very impressive.

“I think we should vote,” she said decidedly. “It will not be agreeable in many respects, and will heavily increase our responsibilities, but the reasons for far outweigh those against. A good many of us have money in our own names. We all have large allowances. Some day we may have the terrible responsibility of great wealth. The income-tax is in danger of being defeated. If we get the vote, we may do much toward making it a law, and it is a move in the right direction towards Socialism. Our next must be towards persuading the Government to take the railroads. It is shocking that the actual costs of transit should be so small, the charges so exorbitant and the profits so enormous. I feel this so oppressively that every time I make a long journey by rail, I give the equivalent of my fare to the poor at once. It is a horrifying thing that we on this narrow island of New York city should live like hothouse plants in the midst of a malarious swamp: that almost at our back doors the poor are living, whole families in one room, and on one meal a day. My father gives me many thousands a year for charity, but charity is not the solution of the problem. There must be a redistribution of wealth. Of course I have no desire to come down to poverty; I am physically unfit for it, as are all of us. We should have sufficient left to insure our comfort; but any woman with brain can get along without the more extravagant luxuries. It is time that we did something to justify our existence, and if the law required that we worked two or three hours a day instead of leading the idle life of pleasure that we do——”

“We are ornamental; that is something,” exclaimed a remarkably pretty woman. “I am sure the people outside love to read about and look at us. Society gossip is not written for us.”

Miss Maitland smiled. “You certainly are ornamental, Mary,” she said; “but fancy how much more interesting you would be if you were useful as well.”

“I’d lose my good looks.”

“Well, you can’t keep them forever. You should cultivate a substitute meanwhile, and then you never need be driven back into the ranks of passée, disappointed women. Faded beauties are a bore to everybody.”

“I refuse to contemplate such a prospect. Alex, you are getting to be a horrid rude advanced New Woman.”

Mrs. Burr clapped her hands. “How delightful!” she cried, “I didn’t know we were to have a debate.”

“Now keep quiet, all of you,” said Miss Maitland; “I have not finished. Mary Gallatin, don’t you interrupt me again. Now that we understand this question so thoroughly, we must have more recruits. Of course, hundreds of women of the upper class are signing the petition asking for the extension of the franchise to our sex, but few of them are interested in Socialism. And if it is to be brought about, it must be by us. I have little faith in the rag-tag bob-tail element at present enlisted in that cause. They not only carry little weight with the more intelligent part of the community, but I have been assured that they would not fight—that they take it out in talk; that if ever there was a great upheaval, they would let the anarchists do the killing, and then step in, and try to get control later.

“Now, I thoroughly despise a coward; so do all women; and I have no faith in the propagandism of men that won’t fight. What we must do is to enlist our men. They are luxurious now, and love all that pertains to wealth; but, as Wellington said once of the same class in England: ‘The puppies can fight!’ Not that our men are puppies—don’t misunderstand me—but you know what I mean. They would only seem so to a man who had spent his life in the saddle.

“It has been said that the Civil War took our best blood, and that that is the reason we have no great men now; all the most gallant and high-minded and ambitious were killed—although I don’t forget that Mr. Forbes could be anything that he chose. I suppose he thinks that American statesmanship has fallen so low that he scorns to come out avowedly as the head of his party, and merely amuses himself pulling the wires. But I feel positive that if a tremendous crisis ever arose, it would be Mr. Forbes who would unravel the snarl. You can tell him that, Augusta, with my compliments.

“Now, I have come to the real point of what I have to say. It was first suggested to me by Helena Belmont when she was on here last, and it has taken a strong hold on my mind. We must awaken the soul in our men—that is what they lack. The germ is there, but it has not been developed; perhaps I should say that the soul of the American people rose to its full flower during the Civil War, and then withered in the reaction, and in the commercial atmosphere which has since fitted our nation closer than its own skin. Miss Belmont says that nothing will arouse the men but another war; that they will be nothing but a well-fed body with a mental annex until they once more have a ‘big atmosphere’ to expand in. But I don’t wholly agree with her, and the thought of another such sacrifice is appalling. I believe that the higher qualities in man can be roused more surely by woman than by bloodshed, and that if we, the women of New York, the supposed orchids, butterflies, or whatever people choose to call us, whose luxury is the cynosure and envy of the continent, could be instrumental in giving back to the nation its lost spiritual quality—understand, please, that I do not use the word in its religious sense—it would be a far greater achievement than any for which the so-called emancipated women are vociferating. The vote is a minor consideration. If we acquire the influence over men that we should, we shall not need it. And personally, I should dispense with it with great pleasure.”

“Bravo! young lady,” exclaimed a vibrating resonant voice, and a clerical man entered the room to the clapping of many hands. His eyes were keen and restless, his hair and beard black and silver, and there was a curious disconcerting bald spot on his chin. He looked ready to burst with energy.

“Thank you all very much, but don’t clap any more, for I have only a few minutes to spare. How do you do, Mrs. Burr? Yes, that was a very good speech—I have been eavesdropping, you see. Feminine, but I am the last to quarrel with that. It is not necessary for a woman to be logical so long as her instincts are in the right direction. Well, I will say a few words to you; but they must be few as I am very hoarse: I have been speaking all day.” He strode about as he talked, and occasionally smote his hands together. He was a very emphatic speaker, and, like all crusaders, somewhat theatrical.

“I agree with all that Miss Maitland has said to you—with the exception of her views on Socialism, I don’t believe Socialism to be the solution of our loathsome municipal degradation nor of the universal social evil. But I have no time to go into that question to-day. The other part—that you must awaken the soul of the men of your class—I most heartily endorse. The gentlemen alone can save this country—snatch it from the hands of plebeians and thieves. In them alone lies the hope of American regeneration. When I read of a strapping young man who has been educated at Harvard, or Yale, or Princeton, who is an expert boxer, fencer, whip, oarsman, yachtsman, addicted to all manly sport, in fact—when I read of such a man having tortoise-shell brushes with diamond monograms, diamond garter buckles, and thirty sets of silk pyjamas—never see their names in the paper except as ushers at weddings, or as having added some new trifle to their costly apartments, it makes me sick—sick! A war would rouse these young men, as Miss Maitland suggests; I haven’t the slightest doubt that they would fight magnificently, and that those who survived would be serious and useful men for the rest of their lives. But we don’t want war, and you must do the rousing. Make them vote—vote—nullify the thieving lying cormorants who are fattening on your country, and ruining it morally and financially, as well as making it the scorn and jest of Europe. And make them vote, not only this year, but every year for the rest of their lives, and on every possible question. It is to be hoped, indeed, that no war will come to awaken their manhood—we don’t want to pay so hideous a price as that, and it is shocking that it has been found necessary to suggest it. But what we do want is a great moral war. Lash them into that, and see that they do not break ranks until they have honest men in the legislature, in Congress, and in every municipal office in the country. Now, I must be off,” and waving a hasty adieu, he shot out.

“For my part,” said Mrs. Burr, above the enthusiastic chorus, “I am delighted that he didn’t uphold Socialism. I’ll undertake the reformation of Latimer, although it will probably give me wrinkles and turn me grey, but I won’t have him giving up his ‘boodle,’ as they say out West; not I! not I!”

“Gally is hopeless,” said that famous clubman’s wife, with a sigh. “I shall have to work on someone else.”

“It will be lots more interesting,” murmured her neighbour.

“How shall we begin?” asked Mrs. Burr, wrinkling her smooth brow. “Put them on gruel and hot water for awhile? I am sure they are hopeless so long as they eat and drink so much.”

“I suppose all we girls will have to marry,” remarked one of them.

“Well, you would, anyhow,” said Mrs. Burr, consolingly.

“I shall not marry until I find the right man,” said Augusta firmly, “not if I die an old maid. But father would be a splendid convert, and his name would carry great weight.”

“You mean for Socialism,” replied her hostess. “No man does his political duty more religiously than Mr. Forbes. But let us send Socialism to—ahem—and just work at the other thing. I am dying to see how Latimer will take it.”

“Never!” exclaimed Augusta, and was echoed loyally. “We must not lose sight of that. I don’t at all agree with Dr. Broadhead on that point. I have fully made up my mind to bring papa round.”

“But you are at a disadvantage, darling,” said Mrs. Burr, drily; “your beautiful mamma thinks we are all a pack of idiots, and your father has a great respect for her opinion, to say nothing of being more or less épris.”

“I shall convert her too,” said Augusta sturdily.

Mrs. Burr laughed outright. “I can just see Mrs. Forbes posing as a prophet of Socialism. Well, let us eat. Alexis, you must be limp all the way down, and your thinker must be fairly staggering. I will pour you a stiff cup of tea and put some rum in it.”

Augusta rose. “I must go, Hal,” she said. “I have a speech to make myself in the slums, you know. Aren’t you coming?”

“I? God forbid! But do take something before you go. It may save you from stage-fright.”

“I haven’t a minute. I must be there in twenty. Who is coming with me?”

Eight or ten of the company rose and hurried out with her; the rest gathered about the tea-table and relieved their mental tension in amicable discussion of the lighter matters of the day.

CHAPTER III.

A footman had taken the Duke of Bosworth’s cards up to Miss Mabel Creighton and her mother. The young man had arrived but an hour before and still wore his travelling gear, but had been given to understand that an English peer was welcome in a New York drawing-room on any terms. The drawing-room in which he awaited the American maiden who had taken his attenuated fancy was large and sumptuous and very expensive. There were tables of ormolu, and cabinets of tortoise-shell containing collections of cameos, fens and miniatures, a lapis lazuli clock three feet high, and a piano inlaid with twenty-seven different woods. The walls were frescoed by a famous hand, and there were lamps and candle-brackets and various articles of decoration which must have been picked up in extensive travels.

The Duke noted everything with his slow listless gaze. He sat forward on the edge of his chair, his chin pressed to the head of his stick. He was a small delicately-built man, of thirty or more. His shoulders had rounded slightly. His cheeks and lower lip were beginning to droop. The pale blue eyes were dim, the lids red. He was a debauchee, but “a good sort,” and men liked him.

He did not move during the quarter of an hour he was kept waiting, but when the portière was pushed aside he rose quickly, and went forward with much grace and charm of manner. The girl who entered was a dainty blonde fluffy creature, and looked like a bit of fragile china in the palatial room.

“How sweet of you to come so soon,” she said, with frank pleasure. “I did not expect you for an hour yet. Mamma will be down presently. She is quite too awfully anxious to meet you.”

The Duke resumed his seat and leaned back this time, regarding Miss Creighton through half-closed eyes. His expression was much the same as when he had inventoried the room.

“I came to America to see you,” he said.

The colour flashed to her hair, but she smiled gracefully. “How funny! Just as if you had run over to pay me an afternoon call. Did the trip bore you much?”

“I am always bored at sea when I am not ill. I am usually ill.”

“Oh! Really? How horrid! I am never ill. I always find the trip rather jolly. I go over to shop, and that would keep me up if nothing else did. Well, I think it was very good indeed of you—awfully good—to brave the horrors of the deep, or rather of your state-room, just to call on me.”

She had a babyish voice and a delightful manner. The Duke smiled. He was really rather glad to see her again. “You were good enough to ask me to call if I ever came over,” he said, “and it occurred to me that it would be a jolly thing to do. I only had little detached chats with you over there, and there were always a lot of Johnnies hanging about. I felt interested to see you in your own surroundings.”

“Oh—perhaps you are going to write a book? I have always felt dreadfully afraid that you were clever. Well, don’t make the mistake of thinking that we have only one type over here, as they always do when they come to write us up. There are just ten girls in my particular set—we have sets within sets, as you do, you know—and we are each one of us quite different from all the others. We are supposed to be the intellectual set, and Alexandra Maitland and Augusta Forbes are really frightfully clever. I don’t know why they tolerate me—probably because I admire them. Augusta is my dearest friend. Alex pats me on the head and says that I am the leaven that keeps them from being a sodden lump of grey matter. I have addled my brains trying to keep up with them.”

“Don’t; you are much more charming as you are.”

“Oh, dear! I don’t know. Men always seem to get tired of me,” she replied, with just how much ingenuousness the Duke could not determine. “Mrs. Burr says it is because I talk a blue streak and say nothing. Hal is quite too frightfully slangy. Augusta kisses me and says I am an inconsequential darling. She made me act in one of Howell’s comedies once, and I did it badly on purpose, in the hope of raising my reputation, but Augusta said it was because I couldn’t act. Fletcher Cuyler, who is the most impertinent man in New York said—— Have you seen Fletcher?”

“He came out on the tug to meet me, and left me at the door.”

“I believe if Fletcher really has a deep down affection for anyone, it is for you—I mean for any man. He is devoted to all of us, and he is the only man we chum with. But we wouldn’t have him at the meeting to-day. Do you know that I should have lent my valuable presence to two important meetings this afternoon?”

“Really?” The Duke was beginning to feel a trifle restless.

“Yes, we are going in frightfully for Socialism, you know—Socialism and the vote—and—oh, dozens of other things. Alex said we must, and so we did. It’s great fun. We make speeches. At least, I don’t, but the others do. Should you like to go to one of our meetings?”

“I should not!” said the Duke emphatically.

“Well, you must not make fun of us, for I am simply bent on having all the girls adore you, particularly Augusta. The other day we had a lovely meeting. It was here. I have the prettiest boudoir: Alex designed it. It looks just like a rainbow. I lay on the couch in a gown to match, and the girls all took off their stiff street frocks and put on my wrappers, and we smoked cigarettes and ate bon-bons, and read Karl Marx. It was lovely! I didn’t understand a word, but I felt intellectual—the atmosphere, you know. When we had finished a chapter and Alex had expounded it, and quarrelled over it with Augusta, we talked over all the men we knew, and I am sure men would be lots better if they knew what girls thought about them. Alex says we must regenerate them, quicken their souls, so to speak, and I suppose I may as well begin on you, although you’re not an American, and can’t vote—we’re for reforming the United States, you know. What is the state of your soul?” And again she gave her fresh childlike laugh.

“I haven’t any. Give me up. I am hopeless.” He was arriving at the conclusion that she was more amusing in detached chats, but reflected that she was certainly likeable. It was this last pertainment, added to the rumour of her father’s vast wealth, that had brought him across the water.

“I don’t know that I have ever seen one of the—what do they call them?—advanced women? But I am told that they are not Circean. That, indeed, seems to be their hall-mark. A woman’s first duty is to be attractive.”

“That’s what Fletcher says. Augusta is my most intimate friend, my very dearest friend, but I never saw a man look as if he was thinking about falling in love with her. How long shall you stay?” she added quickly, perceiving that he was tiring of the subject.

“I?—oh—I don’t know. Until you tell me that I bore you. I may take a run into Central America with Fletcher.”

“Into what? Why that’s days, and days, and days from here, and must be a horrid place to travel in.”

“I thought Chicago was only twenty-four hours from New York.”

“Oh, you funny, funny, deliciously funny Englishman! Why Central America doesn’t belong to the United States at all. It’s ’way down between North and South America or somewhere. I suppose you mean middle America. We call Chicago and all that part of the country West.”

“If it’s middle it’s central,” said the Duke, imperturbably. “You cannot expect me to command the vernacular of your enormous country in a day.”

He rose suddenly. A woman some twenty years older than Mabel had entered. Her face and air were excessively, almost aggressively refined, her carriage complacent, a trifle insolent. She was the faded prototype of her daughter. The resemblance was close and prophetic.

“My dear Duke,” she said, shaking him warmly by the hand, “I am so flattered that you have come to us at once, and so glad to have the opportunity to thank you for your kindness to Mabel when she was in your dear delightful country. Take that chair, it is so much more comfortable.” She herself sat upon an upright chair, and laid one hand lightly over the other. Her repose of manner was absolute. “The happiest days of my life were spent in England, when I was first married—it seems only day before yesterday—my husband and I went over and jaunted about England and Scotland and Wales in the most old-fashioned manner possible. For six months we rambled here and there, seeing everything—one was not ashamed of being a tourist in those days. We would not present a letter, we wanted to have a real honeymoon: we were so much in love. And to think that Aire Castle is so near that terrible Strid. I remember that we stood for an hour simply fascinated. Mr. Creighton wanted to take the stride, but I wouldn’t let him. He has never been over with me since—he is so busy. I can’t think how Mr. Forbes always manages to go with his wife, unless it is true that he is jealous of her—although in common justice I must add that if she has ever given him cause no one knows it. I suppose it is on general principles, because she is such a beauty. Still I must say that if I were a man and married to a Southern woman I should want to get rid of her occasionally: they are so conceited and they do rattle on so about nothing. Virginia Forbes talks rather less than most Southern women; but I imagine that is to enhance the value of her velvety voice.”

The Duke, who had made two futile efforts to rise, now stood up resolutely.

“I am very sorry——” he began.

“Oh! I am so sorry you will rush away,” exclaimed his hostess. “I have barely heard you speak. You must come with us to the opera to-night. Do. Will you come informally to an early dinner, or will you join us in the box with Fletcher?”

“I will join you with Fletcher. And I must go—I have an engagement with him at the hotel—he is waiting for me. You are very kind—thanks, awfully. So jolly to be so hospitably received in a strange country.”

When he reached the side-walk, he drew a long breath. “My God!” he thought, “Is it a disease that waxes with age? Perhaps they get wound up sometimes and can’t stop.... And she is pretty now, but it’s dreadful to have the inevitable sprung on you in that way. What are the real old women like, I wonder? They must merely fade out like an old photograph. I can’t imagine one of them a substantial corpse. I shall feel as if I were married to a dissolving view. She is charming now, but—oh, well, that is not the only thing to be taken into consideration.”

The Creighton house was on Murray Hill. He crossed over to Fifth Avenue and walked down toward the Waldorf, absently swinging his stick, regardless of many curious glances. “I wonder,” he thought, “I wonder if I ever dreamed of a honeymoon with the one woman. If I did, I have forgotten. What a bore it will be now.”

CHAPTER IV.

Augusta returned home at six o’clock, not flushed with triumph, for she was too tired, but with an elated spirit. She had stood on a platform in an East Side hall surrounded by her friends, and to two dozen bedraggled females had made the first speech of her life. And it had been a good speech; she did not need assurance of that. She had stood as well as Alexandra Maitland, but had used certain little emphatic gestures (she was too independent to imitate anyone); and she had, with well-bred lack of patronage, assured her humble sisters, for three quarters of an hour, that they must sign the petition for Woman Franchise, and make all the other women on the East Side sign it: in order that they might be able to put down the liquor trust, reform their husbands, secure good government, and be happy ever after. She flattered herself that she had not used a single long word—and she prided herself upon her vocabulary—that she had spoken with the simplicity and directness which characterized great orators and writers. Altogether, it was an experience to make any girl scorn fatigue; and when she entered her boudoir and found Mabel Creighton, she gave her a dazzling smile of welcome, and embraced her warmly. Mabel responded with a nervous hug and shed a tear.

“He’s here!” she whispered ecstatically.

“Who?—Oh, your Duke. Did he propose right off? Do tell me.” And she seated herself close beside her friend, and forgot that she was reforming the United States.

“No, but he told me that he had come over on purpose to see me.”

“That’s equal to a proposal,” said Augusta decidedly. “Englishmen are very cautious. They are much better brought up than ours. Which is only another warning that we must take ours in hand. It is shocking the way they frivol. I’d rather you married an American for this reason; but if you love the Duke of Bosworth, I have nothing to say. Besides, you’re the vine-and-tendril sort; I don’t know that you’d ever acquire any influence over a man; so it doesn’t much matter. Now tell me about the Duke, dearest; I am so glad that he has come.”

Mabel talked a steady stream for a half-hour, then hurried home to dress for the evening.

Mr. Forbes was standing before the fire in the drawing-room when his daughter entered, apparelled for the opera and subsequent ball. She wore a smart French gown of pale blue satin, a turquoise comb in her pale modishly dressed hair, and she carried herself with the spring and grace of her kind; but she was very pale, and there were dark circles about her eyes.

“You look worn out, my dear,” said her father, solicitously. “What have you been doing?”

Miss Forbes sank into a chair. “I went to two meetings, one at Hal’s and one in the slums. I spoke for the first time, and it has rather taken it out of me.”

“Would the victory of your ‘cause’ compensate for crow’s feet?”

“Indeed it would. I really do not care. I am so glad that I have no beauty to lose. I might not take life so seriously if I had. I am beginning to have a suspicion that Mary Gallatin and several others have merely taken up these great questions as a fad. Here comes mamma, I am glad, for I am hungry. I had no time for tea to-day.”

A portière was lifted aside by a servant, and Mrs. Forbes entered the room. But for the majesty of her carriage she looked younger than her daughter, so exquisitely chiselled were her features, so fresh and vivid her colouring. Virginia Forbes was thirty-nine and looked less than thirty. Her tall voluptuous figure had not outgrown a line of its early womanhood, her neck and arms were Greek. A Virginian by birth, she inherited her high-bred beauty from a line of ancestors that had been fathered in America by one of Elizabeth’s courtiers. Her eyes had the slight fullness peculiar to the Southern woman; the colour, like that of the hair, was a dark brown warmed with a touch of red. Her curved, scarlet mouth was not full, but the lips were rarely without a pout, which lent its aid to the imperious charm of her face. There were those who averred that upon the rare occasions when this lovely mouth was off guard it showed a hint in its modelling of self-will and cruelty. But few had seen it off guard.

She wore a tiara of diamonds, and on her neck three rows of large stones depending lightly from fine gold chains. Her gown was of pale green velvet, with a stomacher of diamonds. On her arm she carried an opera cloak of emerald green velvet lined with blue fox.

Mr. Forbes’ cold brilliant eyes softened and smiled as she came toward him, flirting her lashes and lifting her chin. For this man, whose eyes were steel during all the hours of light, who controlled the destinies of railroads and other stupendous enterprises and was the back-bone of his political party, who had piled up millions as a child piles up blocks, and who had three times refused the nomination of his party for the highest gift of the nation, had worshipped his wife for twenty-two years. He turned toward his home at the close of each day with a pleasure that never lost its edge, exulting in the thought that ambition, love of admiration, and the onerous duties of the social leader could not tempt his wife to neglect him for an hour. He lavished fortunes upon her. She had an immense allowance to squander without record, a palace at Newport and another in the North Carolina mountains, a yacht, and jewels to the value of a million dollars. In all the years of their married life he had refused her but one dear desire—to live abroad in the glitter of courts, and receive the homage of princes. He had declined foreign missions again and again. “The very breath of life for me is in America,” he had said with final decision. “And if I wanted office I should prefer the large responsibilities of the Presidency to the nagging worries of an Ambassador’s life. The absurdities of foreign etiquette irritate me now when I can come and go as I like. If they were my daily portion I should end in a lunatic asylum. They are a lot of tin gods, anyhow, my dear. As for you, it is much more notable to shine as a particular star in a country of beauties, than to walk away from a lot of women who look as if they had been run through the same mould, and are only beauties by main strength.” And on this point she was forced to submit. She did it with the better grace because she loved her husband with the depth and tenacity of a strong and passionate nature. His brain and will, the nobility and generosity of his character, had never ceased to exercise their enchantment, despite the men that paid her increasing court. Moreover, although the hard relentless pursuit of gold had aged his hair and skin, Mr. Forbes was a man of superb appearance. His head and features had great distinction; his face, when the hours of concentration were passed, was full of magnetism and life, his eyes of good-will and fire. His slender powerful figure betrayed little more than half of his fifty-one years. He was a splendid specimen of the American of the higher civilisation: with all the vitality and enthusiasm of youth, the wide knowledge and intelligence of more than his years, and a manner that could be polished and cold, or warm and spontaneous, at will.

For her daughter, Mrs. Forbes cared less. She had not the order of vanity which would have dispensed with a walking advertisement of her years, but she resented having borne an ugly duckling, one, moreover, that had tiresome fads. She had been her husband’s confidante in all his gigantic schemes, financial and political, and Augusta’s intellectual kinks bored her.

She crossed the room and gave her husband’s necktie a little twist. Mr. Forbes sustained the reputation of being the best-groomed man in New York, but it pleased her to think that she could improve him. Then she fluttered her eyelashes again.

“Do I look very beautiful?” she whispered.

He bent his head and kissed her.

“When you two get through spooning,” remarked Miss Forbes in a tired voice, “suppose we go in to dinner.”

“Don’t flatter yourself that it is all for you,” Mrs. Forbes said to her husband, “I am to meet an English peer to-night.”

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Forbes, smiling, “Have we another on the market? What is his price? Does he only want a roof? or will he take the whole castle, barring the name and the outside walls?”

“You are such an old cynic. This is the Duke of Bosworth, a very charming man, I am told. I don’t know whether he is poverty-stricken or not. I believe he paid Mabel Creighton a good deal of attention in the autumn, when she was visiting in England.”

“He wouldn’t get much with her: Creighton is in a tight place. He may pull out, but he has three children besides Mabel. However, there are plenty of others to snap at this titled fish, no doubt.”

“I hope not,” said Augusta. “Dear Mabel is very fond of him; I am sure of that. He only arrived to-day, and is going with them to the opera to-night. How are you to meet him?”

“Fletcher Cuyler will bring him to my box, of course. Are not all distinguished foreigners brought to my shrine at once?”

“True,” said Miss Forbes. “But are we going in to dinner? I have never heard Maurel in Don Giovanni, and I don’t want to lose more than the first act.”

“There is plenty of it. But let us go in to dinner, by all means.”

CHAPTER V.

The two tiers of boxes at the Metropolitan Opera House reserved for the beauty and fashion of New York flashed with the plumage of women and a thousand thousand gems. Women of superb style, with little of artifice but much of art, gowned so smartly that only their intense vitality saved them from confusion with the fashion-plate, carrying themselves with a royal, albeit somewhat self-conscious air, many of them crowned like empresses, others starred like night, producing the effect en masse of resplendent beauty, and individually of deficiency in all upon which the centuries have set their seal, hung, two or three in a frame, against the curving walls and red background of the great house: suspended in air, these goddesses of a new civilisation, as if with insolent challenge to all that had come to stare. To the music they paid no attention. They had come to decorate, not to listen; without them there would be no opera. The music lovers were stuffed on high, where they seemed to cling to the roof like flies. The people in the parquette and orchestra chairs, in the dress-circle and balconies, came to see the hundreds of millions represented in the grand tier. Two rows of blasé club faces studded the long omnibus box. Behind the huge sleeves and voluminous skirts that sheathed their proudest possessions, were the men that had coined or inherited the wealth which made this triumphant exhibition possible.

As the curtain went down on the second act and the boxes emptied themselves of their male kind that other male kind might enter to do homage, two young men took their stand in the back of a box near the stage and scanned the house. One of them remarked after a few moments:

“I thought that all American women were beautiful. So far, I see only one.”

“These are the New York fashionettes, my dear boy. Their pedigree is too short for aristocratic outline. You will observe that the pug is as yet unmitigated. Not that blood always tells, by any means: some of your old duchesses look like cooks. Our orchids travel on their style, grooming, and health, and you must admit that the general effect is stunning. Who is your beauty?”

“Directly in the middle of the house. Gad! she’s a ripper.”

“You are right. That is the prettiest woman in New York. And her pedigree is probably as good as yours.”

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Edward R. Forbes, the wife of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the United States.”

“Really!”

“That is her daughter beside her.”

“Her what!”

“I always enjoy making that shot. It throws a flash-light on the pitiful lack of originality in man every time. But it is nothing for the petted wife of an American millionaire to look thirty when she is forty. It’s the millionaire who looks sixty when he is fifty. I’m not including Forbes, by the way. That tall man of fine physique that has just left the box is he.”

“Poor thing!”

“Oh, don’t waste any pity on Forbes. He’s the envy of half New York. She is devoted to him, and with good reason: there are few men that can touch him at any point. I shall take you over presently. The first thing a distinguished stranger, who has had the tip, does when he comes to New York is to pay his court at that shrine. What a pity you are booked. That girl will come in for forty millions.”

The other set his face more stolidly.

“Pounds?”

“Oh, no—dollars. But they’ll do.”

“I have not spoken as yet, although I don’t mind saying that that is what I came over for.”

“I suppose you are in pretty deep—too deep to draw out?”

“I don’t know that I want to. I can be frank with you, Fletcher. Is her father solid? American fortunes are so deucedly ricketty. I am perfectly willing to state brutally that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—marry Venus unless I got a half million (pounds) with her and something of an income to boot.”

“As far as I know Creighton stands pretty well toward the top. You can never tell though: American fortunes are so exaggerated. You see, the women whose husbands are worth five millions can make pretty much the same splurge as the twenty or thirty million ones. They know so well how to do it. For the matter of that there’s one clever old parvenu here who has never handled more than a million and a half—as I happen to know, for I’m her lawyer—and who entertains with the best of them. Her house, clothes, jewels, are gorgeous. A shrewd old head like that can do a lot on an income of seventy thousand dollars a year. But Forbes, I should say, is worth his twenty millions—that’s allowing for all embellishments—if he’s worth a dollar, and Augusta is the only child. Unless America goes bankrupt, she’ll come in for two-thirds of that one of these days, and an immense dot meanwhile.”

At this moment Miss Creighton, who had been talking with charming vivacity to a group of visitors, dismissed them with tactful badinage, and beckoned to the two men in the back of the box.

“Sit down,” she commanded. “What do you think, Fletcher? I stayed away from two important meetings to-day in order to receive the Duke. Was not that genuine American hospitality?”

She spoke lightly; but as her eyes sought the Englishman’s, something seemed to flutter behind her almost transparent face.

“These fads! These fads!” exclaimed the young man addressed as Fletcher. “Have you resigned yourself to the New Woman, Bertie? The New York variety is innocuous. They just have a real good time and the newspapers take them seriously and write them up, which they think is lovely.”

“Nobody pays any attention to Fletcher Cuyler,” said Miss Creighton with affected disdain. “We will make you all stare yet.”

The Duke smiled absently. He was looking toward the box in the middle of the tier.

“I think women should have whatever diversion they can find or invent,” he said. “Society does not do much for them.”

The curtain rose.

“Keep quiet,” ordered Cuyler. “I allow no talking in a box which I honour with my presence. That isn’t what I ruin myself for.”

He was a tail nervous blonde bald-headed man of the Duke’s age, with an imp-like expression and dazzling teeth. Despite the fact that he was unwealthed, he was a fixed star in New York society; he not only knew more dukes and princes than any other man in the United States, but was intimate with them. He had smart English relatives and was a graduate of Oxford, where he had been the chosen friend of the heir to the Dukedom of Bosworth. His excessive liveliness, his adaptability and versatility, his audacity, eccentricities, cleverness, and his utter disregard of rank, had made him immensely popular in England. He was treated as something between a curio and a spoilt child; and if people guessed occasionally that his head was peculiarly level, they but approved him the more.

When the act was done and the box again invaded, Cuyler carried the Englishman off to call on Mrs. Forbes. Her box was already crowded, and Mr. Forbes stood just outside the door. As the Duke was introduced to him, he contracted his eyelids, and a brief glance of contempt shot from eyes that looked twenty years younger than the fish-like orbs which involuntarily twitched as they met that dart. But Mr. Forbes was always courteous, and he spoke pleasantly to the young man of his father, whom he had known.

Cuyler entered the box. “Get out,” he said, “everyone of you. I’ve got a live duke out there. He’s mortgaged for the rest of the evening and time’s short.” He drove the men out, then craned his long neck round the half-open door.

“Dukee, dukee,” he called, “come hither.”

The Duke, summoning what dignity he could, entered, and was presented. After he had paid a few moments’ court to Mrs. Forbes, Cuyler deftly changed seats with him and plunged into an animated dispute with his hostess anent the vanishing charms of Don Giovanni.

The Duke leaned over Miss Forbes’ chair with an air of languor, which was due to physical fatigue, contemplating her absently, and not taking the trouble to more than answer her remarks. Nevertheless, his prolonged if indifferent stare disturbed the girl who had known little susceptibility to men. There was something in the cold regard of his eye, the very weariness of his manner, which had its charm for the type of woman who is responsive to the magnetism of inertia, whom a more vital force repels. And his title, all that it represented, the pages of military glory it rustled, appealed to the mind of the American girl who had felt the charm of English history. She was not a snob; she had given no thought to marrying a title; and if the man had repelled her, she would have relegated him to that far outer circle whence all were banished who bored her or achieved her disapproval; but a thin spell emanated from this cold self-contained personality and stirred her languid pulse. Practical as she was, she had a girl’s imagination, and she saw in him all that he had not, haloed with an ancient title; behind him a great sweep of historical canvas. Then she remembered her friend; and envied her with the most violent emotion of her life.

“Well, what do you think of her?” asked Cuyler of the Duke, as they walked down the lobby. “I don’t mean la belle dame sans merci; there’s only one opinion on that subject. But Augusta? do you think you could stand her? If Forbes took the notion he’d come down with five million dollars without turning a hair.”

“I could swallow her whole and without a grimace,” said the Duke drily. “But I am half, two-thirds committed. I have no intention of making Miss Creighton ridiculous, although I shall be obliged to tell her father frankly that I cannot marry her unless he comes down with half a million. It’s a disgusting thing to do, but I have no choice.”

“Oh, don’t go back on Mabel, of course. But I am sorry. However, nous verrons. If Creighton doesn’t come to time, let me know. I am pretty positive I can arrange the other: I think I know my fair compatriot’s weak spot. I suppose you go on with the Creightons to the big affair at the Schemmerhorn-Smiths to-night? Well, give Augusta a quarter of an hour or so of your flattering attentions. It will do no harm, in any event. I feel like a conspirator, but I’d like to see you on your feet. Gad! I wish I had a title; I wouldn’t be in debt as long as you have been.”

CHAPTER VI.

The next day Cuyler took the Duke to call on Mrs. Forbes in her house. It was five o’clock and the lamps were lit. Augusta’s particular set were there, talking Socialism over their tea, and enlightening a half-dozen young men and elderly club roués, who listened with becoming gravity. Mrs. Forbes sat somewhat apart by the tea-table talking to three or four men on any subject but Socialism. She wore a gown of dark-red velvet with a collar of Venetian lace and sat in a large high-backed chair of ebony, inlaid with ivory. The seat was also high, and she looked somewhat like a queen on her throne, graciously receiving the homage of her courtiers. The drawing-room was twice as large as the Creighton’s, the Duke noted as he entered. It was hung with dark-green velvet embroidered with a tree design in wood colour an inch thick. Every shade of green blended in the great apartment, and there was no other colour but the wood relief and the pink of the lamp-shades.

Mrs. Forbes did not rise, but she held out her hand to the stranger with so spontaneous a warmth that he felt as if he were receiving his first welcome in transatlantic parts. She had not shaken hands with him at the opera, and their brief conversation had been over her shoulder; he now found that her eyes and hand, her womanly magnetism and almost regal manner combined to effect the impression: “New York, c’est moi. My hospitality to the elect few who win my favour is sincere and unbounded, the bitter envy of the cold and superfluous stranger without its gates; and, of all men, my dear Duke of Bosworth, you are the most genuinely welcome.”

He wondered a little how she did it, but did not much care. It was a large beautiful gracious presence, and he was content, glad to bask in it. He forgot Augusta and Mabel, and took a low chair before her.

“I won’t ask you how you like New York,” she said, smiling again. She half divined his thoughts, and saw that he was clever despite an entire indifference to his natural abilities; and the sympathy of her nature conveyed what she thought.

“Oh, I do—now,” he replied with unwonted enthusiasm. “I must say that the blind rush everybody seems to be in is a trifle disconcerting at first—it makes an Englishman feel, rather, as if his youngest child—the child of his old age, as it were, was on a dead run, and that he must rush after to see what it was all about or be left behind like an old fogey. Upon my word I feel fully ten years older than I did when I landed.”

She laughed so heartily that he felt a sudden desire to say something really clever, and wondered why he usually took so little trouble.

“That is the very best statement of one of our racial differences I have heard,” she said; “I shall remember to tell it to my husband. He will be delighted. I feel the rush myself at times, for I was born in a far more languid climate. But New York is an electrifying place; it would fascinate you in time.”

“It fascinates me already!” he said gallantly, “and it is certainly reposeful here.”

“It is always the same, particularly at five o’clock,” she replied.

“Does that mean that I can drop in sometimes at this hour?”

“Will you?”

“I am afraid I shall be tempted to come every day.”

“That would be our pleasure,” and again she smiled. It was a smile that had warmed older hearts than the weary young profligate’s. “Augusta is almost invariably here and I usually am. Occasionally I drive down to bring my husband home.”

The Duke understood her perfectly. Her graceful pleasure in meeting him was not to be misconstrued. As she turned to greet a new comer he regarded her closely. If she had not taken the trouble to convey her subtle warning, he should have guessed that she loved her husband. Then he fell to wondering what sort of a man Forbes was to have developed the abundant harvest of such a woman’s nature. “She could easily have been made something very different in the wrong hands,” he thought, “and not in one respect only but in many. What a mess I should have made of a nature like that! Little Miss Creighton, with her meagre and neutral make-up is about all I am equal to. This woman might have lifted me up once; but more likely I should have dragged her down. She is all woman, the kind that is controlled and moulded by the will of a man.”

His eyes rested on her mouth. “She will hurt Forbes some day, give him a pretty nasty time; but it won’t be because she doesn’t love him. And—she’ll make him forget—when she gets ready. A man would forgive a woman like that anything.”

She turned suddenly and met his eyes. “What are you thinking?” she demanded.

“That Mr. Forbes must be a remarkable man,” he answered quickly. He rose. “I must go over and speak to Miss Forbes; but I shall come back.”

Mabel’s eyes were full of coquettish reproach. Augusta chaffed him for forgetting their existence. Her manner was not her mother’s, but it was high-bred, and equally sincere. She presented him to the other girls, and to Mrs. Burr, who lifted her lorgnette, and regarded him with a prolonged and somewhat discomforting stare. But it was difficult to embarrass the Duke of Bosworth. He went over and sat beside Mabel.

“I think I met him once,” said Mrs. Burr to Augusta, “but he is so very unindividual that I cannot possibly remember.”

“I think he is charming,” said Miss Forbes. “I had quite a talk with him last night.”

“He doesn’t look stupid, but he’s not precisely hypnotic.”

“Oh, there’s something about him!” exclaimed one of the other girls. “I feel sure that he’s fascinating.”

“He looks as though he knew so much of the world,” said another, with equal enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter with us?” demanded one of the young men.

“You haven’t a title,” said Mrs. Burr.

“Hal, you are quite too horrid. I have not thought of his title—not once. But Norry, you can’t look like that, no matter how hard you try.”

“Oh yes I can; it’s not so hard as you imagine; only it’s not my chronic effect. When I am—ah—indiscreet enough to produce it, I have the grace to keep out of sight.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“Oh, he is an Englishman—with a title,” said the young man, huffily. “Miss Maitland, have you caught the fever?”

“I have either had all, or have outgrown the children’s diseases, and I class the title-fever among them. I know that some get it late in life, but some people will catch anything. Our old butler has just had the mumps.”

“That’s a jolly way of looking at it.”

“Oh you men are not altogether exempt,” said Mrs. Burr. “But the funniest case is Ellis Davis. He’s just come back from London with a wild Cockney accent, calls himself ‘Daivis,’ and says ‘todai’ and the Princess of ‘Wailes,’ and ‘paiper.’ Probably he also says ‘caike’ and ‘laidy.’ I can’t think where he got it, for he must have had some letters, and you may bet your prospects he presented them.”

“Possibly he saw more of the hotel servants and his barber than he did of the others,” suggested Miss Maitland.

“Or his ear may be defective, or his memory bad, and he got mixed,” replied Mrs. Burr. “We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; but I can’t think why the most original people on earth want to imitate anyone. And yet they say we hate the English. Great heaven! Why, we even drink the nasty concoction called English breakfast tea, a brand the English villagers would not give tuppence a pound for, simply because it has the magic word tacked on to it.”

“We don’t hate the English,” said Augusta. “What nonsense. The Irish do, and the politicians toady to the Irish and control certain of the newspapers. That is all there is in it; but they make the most noise.”

“And we grovel,” said Mrs. Burr. “It is a pity we can’t strike a happy medium.”

“I think the greater part of the nation is indifferent,” said Miss Maitland, “or at all events recognises the bond of blood and gratitude.”

The Duke was making his peace with Mabel.

“I was afraid I bored you this morning,” he said, “it is good of you not to tell me that you don’t want to talk to me again for a week.”

“You only stayed an hour. Did it seem so long?”

“I never paid a call of twenty minutes before,” he said unblushingly.

“Oh, how sweet of you!”

“Not at all. Can I walk home with you? Is that proper?”

“Oh, there will be a lot of us together; and they will all want to talk to you.”

“My valuable conversation shall be devoted to you alone.” He hesitated a moment. “Shall you be at home this evening?”

She looked down, tucking the end of her glove under her cuff. “Yes, I rarely go out two nights in succession.”

“May I call again?”

“Yes.”

She looked up and met his eyes. “It has to be done,” thought the Englishman, “there’s no getting out of it now, and I may as well take the plunge and get over it. And she certainly is likeable.”

“They are going now,” said Mabel.

He went over to Mrs. Forbes to make his adieux.

“I haven’t given you any tea,” she said. “It was stupid of me to forget it. You must come back to-morrow and have a cup.”

“I shall come—for the tea,” he said.

“And you must dine with us? Some day next week—Thursday?”

“Thanks, awfully; I’ll come on any pretence.”

“You must—Fletcher, take the Duke into the dining-room. It is so cold outside.”

And to this invitation the Duke responded with no less grace, then walked home with Mabel and left her at her door, happy and elated.

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Forbes stood in his office, his eyes rivetted on a narrow belt of telegraph ticking which slipped loosely through his hands, yard after yard, from a machine on the table. As it fell to the floor and coiled and piled about him, until the upper part of his body alone was visible, it seemed to typify the rising waters of Wall Street. Outside, the city was white and radiant, under snow and electric light. In the comfortable office the curtains were drawn, a gas log flamed in the grate, and the electric loops were hot.

Mr. Forbes had stood motionless for an hour. His hat was on the back of his head. His brow was corrugated. His lips were pressed together, his eyes like flint. The secretary and clerk had addressed him twice, but had been given no heed. The hieroglyphics on that strip of white paper sliding so rapidly through his fingers had his brain in their grip. For the moment he was a financial machine, nothing more.

Suddenly the ticking was softly brushed from his hands, the coils about him kicked apart by a little foot, and he looked down into the face of his wife. She was enveloped in sables; her cheeks were brilliant with the pink of health and cold. Mr. Forbes’ brow relaxed; he drew a deep sigh and removed his hat.

“Well! I am glad I came for you,” she exclaimed. “I believe you would have stood there all night. You looked like a statue. Is anything wrong?”

“I have merely stood here and watched a half million drift through my fingers,” he said. “Northern Consolidated is dropping like a parachute that won’t open. But let us go home. I am very glad you came down.”

When they were in the brougham she slipped her hand into his under cover of the rug. “Are you worried?” she asked.

“No; I don’t know that I am. I can hold on, and when this panic is over the stock will undoubtedly go up again. I have only a million in it. But I am sorry for Creighton. About two-thirds of all he’s got are in this railroad, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to hold on. But let us drop the subject. The thing has got to rest until to-morrow morning, and I may as well rest, too. Besides, nothing weighs very heavily when I am at home. Are we booked for anything to-night?”

“There is Mary Gallatin’s musicale. She has Melba and Maurel. And there is the big dance at the Latimer Burr’s. But if you are tired I don’t care a rap about either. Augusta can go with Harriet.”

“Do stay home; that’s a good girl. I am tired; and what is worse, a lot of men will get me into the smoking-room and talk ‘slump.’ If I could spend the evening lying on the divan in your boudoir, while you read or played to me, I should feel that life was quite all that it should be.”

“Well, you shall. We have so few good times together in winter.”

He pressed her hand gratefully. “Tell me,” he said after a moment, “do you think this Socialism mooning of Augusta’s means anything?”

“No,” she said contemptuously. “I hope that has not been worrying you. Girls must have their fads. Last year it was pink parrots; this year it is Socialism; next year it will be weddings. By the way, what do you think of the Duke?”

“I can’t say I’ve thought about him at all.”

“He is really quite charming.”

“Is he? His title is, I suppose you mean. Have you seen him since?”

“Since when? Oh, the night of Don Giovanni. I forgot that you had not been home to tea this week. He has dropped in with Fletcher several times.”

“Ah! Well, I hope he improves on acquaintance. What does Augusta think of this magnificent specimen of English manhood?”

“I think she rather likes him. She has seen much more of him than I have, and says that she finds him extremely interesting.”

“Good God!”

“But he must have something to him, Ned dear, for Augusta is very difficile. I never heard her say that a man was interesting before.”

“And she has been surrounded by healthy well-grown self-respecting Americans all her life. The infatuation for titles is a germ disease with Americans, more particularly with New Yorkers. The moment the microbe strikes the blood, inflammation ensues, and the women that get it don’t care whether the immediate cause is a man or a remnant. Is his engagement to Mabel Creighton announced?”

“No; she told Augusta that he had spoken to her but not to her father—that Mr. Creighton was in such a bad humour about something she thought it best to wait a while. I suppose it is this Northern Consolidated business.”

“It certainly is. And if the Dukelet is impecunious, I am afraid Mabel won’t get him, for there will be nothing to buy him with. Don’t speak of this, however. Creighton may pull through: the stock may take a sudden jump, or he may have resources of which I know nothing. I should be the last to hint that he was in a hole. Don’t talk any more here; it strains the voice so.”

They were jolting over the rough stones of Fifth Avenue, where speech rasped and wounded the throat. The long picturesque street of varied architecture throbbed with the life of a winter’s afternoon. The swarm of carriages on the white highway looked like huge black beetles with yellow eyes, multiplying without end. The sidewalks were crowded with opposing tides; girls of the orchid world, brightly dressed, taking their brisk constitutional; young men, smartly groomed, promenading with the ponderous tread of fashion; business men, rushing for the hotels where they could hear the late gossip of Wall Street; the rockets of the opera company, splendidly arrayed, and carrying themselves with a haughty swing which challenged the passing eye; and the contingent that had come to stare. But snow-clouds had brought an early dusk, and all were moving homeward. By the time the Forbes reached their house in the upper part of the Avenue the sidewalks were almost deserted, and snow stars were whirling.

The halls and dining-room of the Forbes mansion were hung with tapestries; all the rooms, though home-like, were stately and imposing, subdued in colour and rich in effect. But if the house had been designed in the main as a proper setting for a very great lady, one boudoir and bedroom were the more personal encompassment of a beautiful and luxurious woman. The walls and windows and doors of the boudoir were hung with raw silk, opal hued. The furniture was covered with the same material. On the floor was a white velvet carpet, touched here and there with pale colour. The opal effect was enhanced by the lamps and ornaments, which cunningly simulated the gem. In one corner was a small piano, enamelled white and opalized by the impressionist’s brush.

The pink satin on the walls of the bedroom gleamed through the delicate mist of lace. A shower of lace half-concealed the low upholstered bed. The deep carpet was pink, the dressing-table a huge pink and white butterfly, with furnishings of pink coral inlaid with gold. A small alcove was walled with a looking-glass. Every four years, when Mr. Forbes was away at the National Convention, his wife refurnished these rooms. She was a woman of abounding variety and knew its potence.

Mr. Forbes passed the evening on the divan in the boudoir, while his wife, attired in a negligée of corn-coloured silk, her warm, heavy hair unbound, played Chopin with soft, smothered touch for an hour, then read to him the latest novel. It was one of many evenings, and when he told her that he was the happiest man alive, she remarked to herself: “It would be the same. I love him devotedly. Nevertheless, during these next few weeks he shall not be allowed to forget just how happy I do make him.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Fletcher Cuyler was banging with all his might on the upright piano in one corner of the parlour of his handsome bachelor apartment. The door was thrown open and the servant announced in a solemn voice:

“His Grace, the Duke of Bosworth, sir.”

A bald crown and a broad grin appeared for a moment above the top of the piano.

“Sit down. Make yourself easy while I finish this. It’s a bravura I’m composing.” And he returned to the keys.

“I wish you’d stop that infernal racket,” said the Duke peevishly. “It’s enough to tear the nerves out of a man’s body. Besides, I want to talk to you.”

But Cuyler played out his bravura to the thundering end; then came leaping down the room, swinging his long legs in the air as if they were strung on wires.

The Duke was staring into the fire, huddled together. He looked sullen and miserable.

“Hallo!” cried his host. “What’s up? Anything wrong?”