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 him—that convinces you that he's happy straight through. It's queer, the whole thing—you know I can't explain anything very well. I thought you'd explain it, he concluded lamely.

Campaspe seldom permitted her cynicism to colour her tone. She uttered the following phrase in a voice instinct with the deepest charm: Paulet, you're exactly like Tyltyl searching for that blue fowl.

Now, 'paspe, don't be rough! He held up a protesting hand.

She did not spare him: I shall have to begin to call you Paulianna.

He grinned. I know I'm ridiculous, he admitted.

Anyhow, here is your coffee.

Thanks. He accepted the cup. You'll see for yourself, he went on defiantly, and O, God! 'paspe, Vera's so dull.

Had Mrs. Lorillard needed any additional evidence in regard to the truth of this latter dictum, she received it later in the afternoon. With her drawing-room crowded with what she called her time-fillers, men and women of Laura's set whom she permitted to visit her occasionally, Vera Moody was announced. The appearance in the doorway of stout Vera, her curved figure expensively upholstered in black velvet and bundled in furs, her bosom festooned with pearls, her eyes circled by a betraying red, was a signal for Campaspe to invent


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 a suitable excuse to rid herself of her other callers, not a particularly difficult feat for a woman with her superior cunning.

Once they shared the room between them the fat lady poured out her pangs without reserve.

Paul, she sobbed, doesn't love me any more.

Nonsense, Vera! What's the matter? Campaspe invariably treated the erstwhile Mrs. Whittaker with a considerable degree of brusque impatience. This served not only to soothe her own nerves but also to cow Vera into a state of complete release.

He says. . . Mrs. Moody's voice now rose to a shrill wail. . . that he's going to work!

Is that what you're making all this fuss about? He told me as much today.

Was he here today? The lady seemed to hover on the verge of another explosion which, taking into consideration her proportions, suggested that it would have about enough force to complete the demolition of Rheims Cathedral.

Certainly. He had luncheon with me.

He never lunches with me any more, Mrs. Moody whimpered, and last night he dined out again. But I don't mind that. I know you're one of his oldest friends. It's his going to work that kills me.

I promised to speak to Cupid about getting him a position. Mrs. Lorillard absent-mindedly began to whistle.

Campaspe, you wouldn't do that!

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 I don't see why not. If he wants to go to work, let him.

Campaspe, don't you see? Can't you understand? It's a reflection on me. It means he's tired of me. Why should he want to work otherwise? I've got plenty of money. Why won't he continue to allow me take care of him as I have in the past? He's tired of me! I know he's tired of me!

Campaspe smiled, the more readily as the woman's calloidal convulsions reminded her of the shivering of a mammoth platter of jelly. If I were you, she suggested, I shouldn't worry about Paul's latest decision. He has only threatened to go to work; he hasn't agreed to support himself. He certainly will not succeed in doing so in Cupid's office. Cupid is notoriously close in his business relations.

O, do you think. . . ? Vera brightened a little, but her handkerchief was black with the mascara which had rubbed off her lashes, and the dark tears flowed from her smarting eyes.

I know, Campaspe averred. Let him go to work. It won't do him any harm, I suppose. You see, he has a problem to solve.

It's that furnace-man! Vera spoke with as much bitter vehemence as it was possible for her to summon from her plump, good-natured depths. Ever since he came into the house everything has been different.


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 Paulet says he's curious.

Curious! Vera cried. I should think he is. He's reading books on the uplift, Swedenborg and Freud. I've never before known him to take any interest in subjects like that.

Has he, Campaspe demanded, fascinated, read In Tune with the Infinite?

I don't know. I can't remember all the titles, but his library is beginning to look like Mrs. Pollanger's does on the day before she gives one of those talks of hers at the Woman's Club.

Well, Vera, dry those idle tears. Campaspe began to feel a strong desire to put an end to this scene. He won't go to work until after Monday anyway. I'm giving a box-party at the Riverside on the afternoon of that day. Paulet has promised to be present, and I want you to come, too.

Well, that is nice of you, Campaspe, Mrs. Moody, now completely mollified, gurgled. You usually prefer to be alone, you and Paul, you have so much to talk about. Vera opened her cornelian compact and powdered her nose.

You'll come? Campaspe queried grimly.

Of course, Vera replied. As she rose to take her departure, one of the strands of pearls caught under the arm of her chair. The tension caused the chain to break, scattering the iridescent bubbles over the rug.


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Consuelo sat very quiet, her slender legs dangling over the edge of the couch.

Of course, it is with Campaspe, Laura was qualifying, and it would probably be all right this time. There's certainly no harm in her attending a vaudeville entertainment, except for the fact that she is going out altogether too much. She's acquiring, Laura concluded darkly, too many ideas.

Consuelo's face was pale and emotionless. One could hardly be sure that she was listening at all to this family discussion conducted insensitively without regard for her presence, notwithstanding the certainty that she herself provided the theme for it.

I can't imagine where she gets them all, Laura wailed.

Perhaps, George suggested, from her governess.

No, George. . . Laura spoke decisively. . . I am sure they do not come from Miss Pinchon. I have the utmost faith in her conservatism. I think it must be from books. Consuelo, dear, why aren't you like other little girls?

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 slightest idea, maman, what other little girls may be like. I must admit that I don't understand them at all. I only know that they're not in the least like me.

She complained of a headache and excused herself from the dance Mrs. Nicander gave for the children last week, after she had been there five minutes, Laura continued.

Well, maman, frankly I was bored.

But Consuelo dear, you don't even appear to be interested in your home and your mama and papa and sister.

I'm sorry, maman. I'm fond of you all—in a way—and I know you do all you can—that is everything you know how to do—to make it pleasant for me, but you will acknowledge that the conversation in this house is on a pretty inferior plane.

George turned aside and blew his nose violently. Laura gasped, and gave the impression—opening and closing her mouth rapidly several times—that she was about to make some drastic comment. Apparently, she altered her original intention, for her lips eventually formed these words instead, Consuelo dear, you may certainly accompany Mrs. Lorillard to the Riverside, and now run away. Papa and I want to talk.

Slowly, the child slid down from the couch until her feet touched the floor. Then rising, with great dignity she retired from the room, first casting her mother one of the most subdolous in her extensive


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 repertory of glances, any one of which was calculated to puzzle and disquiet Laura for several hours after she had received it.

As Consuelo, with a great show of courtesy, closed the door carefully behind her, Laura demanded, Did you hear that?

George was laughing. Of course, I heard it, Laura. By Jove, the kid's a wonder. I never thought I'd live to be jacked up by my own child about the tone of my conversation.

Laura was thoughtful. It isn't, she mused audibly, as if she were impolite. I don't think she is ever really that. Her governess reports that she is an angel so far as her deportment goes, but she has such a disconcerting habit of saying what she thinks, and she thinks so much!

Well, Laura, George suggested, I suppose the best thing to do, since she hasn't yet joined the Bolshevists or tried to set fire to the house, is to let her go right on thinking, even if she thinks out loud. That's the English system regarding free speech. In London they give radicals the opportunity to say anything they please publicly or privately, even to write it. This serves to let off a lot of steam and probably preserves the empire. People who talk seldom act. The Russian Tsars never learned that lesson and look where they are now. So long as Consuelo behaves herself to any reasonable degree, let her think or say what she wants to.


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 But George, Laura protested, we can't do that. She'd grow up a barbarian. She expresses the strangest, most mature ideas on every conceivable subject, subjects that I wouldn't dare allow my mind to dwell on, even yet. Why, when I was a girl. ..

I know, I know. George was becoming a trifle impatient. Times have changed, Laura. It's the younger generation.

I've read a good deal about this younger generation and these young intellectuals, but I've always understood that they were over ten.

We should be proud that we have raised a prodigy.

Laura perpended this statement. I think, she put forward, after a pause, that we should send her away to school.

George laughed again. Why, they wouldn't stand for that child in any school, he exclaimed. She'd corrupt the minds of all the other pupils. Besides, she'd never learn anything. She already knows more than any Yale graduate I ever met.

Then, what are we to do?

I think we'll just have to wait and see what happens, George counselled. Let's be patient. Leave the girl alone. Let her think, let her talk. You'll see: the family will be as stable as Britannia in the end. Don't make the Romanoff mistake of sending free-thinkers to Siberia. It never works.

You may be right, George, Laura assented, but her tone did not carry the ring of assurance.


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 Paul and Vera arrived at the Riverside shortly after three, just in time to observe a pair of comedians whacking each other frantically with folded newspapers. Vaudeville audiences, originally, had accepted this gesture as funny in itself. Now the humour lay in appreciating the fact that it had once been considered amusing. Paul had notified Campaspe that, as the Brothers Steel were announced to close the bill, she need not, therefore, present herself before four-thirty. He himself, however, had experienced apprehension lest there might be an inversion in the promised order of the program, which would bring on the acrobats before their appointed hour.

Vera was so delighted by the idea of being permitted to go out in the joint company of her husband and Campaspe that she gave the impression of resembling a stout bottle, so charged with soda, the bubbles constantly rising to the top to seek release, that it might explode at any moment.

I know we shall enjoy ourselves, she explained. I haven't been to a vaudeville show for ages.

Paul, too, was in an excellent, withal somewhat grave, mood. They settled themselves in the gilded cane ball-room chairs which furnished the box, with plaster cupids in amorous attitudes presiding symbolically in a great shell above their heads. Vera sought her husband's hand, and he did not withdraw it immediately.


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 I shall just die! Vera cackled. Did you hear what that man said?

Yes, I heard. Paul smiled.

An exhibition of trained seals followed the two comedians. These incipient coats caught rubber balls on their noses, played musical instruments, shot off revolvers, and waved American flags. After each of these feats they barked excitedly until their trainer, a young woman in high, white, Russian boots and a blue satin costume, edged around the bottom with polar bear fur, dropped her whip to toss them fish, which they caught in the air and devoured edaciously.

O, Paul, I'm having such a good time, Vera declared. Let's go out together oftener.

Whenever you like, Vera. . . . Paul slowly withdrew his hand from the grasp of her palm. . . I think that seal is about to ride a bicycle.

Paul, Vera begged, and her manner had become coy and whimpering, please promise me something.

What is it, Vera?

Promise me you won't go to work.

I can't do that, Vera.

I don't think it's fair to me, Paul. Really, I don't. People will take it as a reflection on the way I treat you. I've done everything I could for you, Paul, but the cats will say you're not satisfied, that you want more. . . . I'll give you more, she avowed wildly, anything you want!


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 You've been wonderful, Vera. It isn't that you haven't, he lied. God! This was worse than Amy!

Let me be wonderful to you—let me go on being, I mean. It makes me happy, Paul. I shall never be happy again if you go to work.

I'm sorry, Vera. The band was playing What'll I Do? to accompany the evolutions of the seals, but it sounded like incidental music for this conversation.

If you really loved me, you'd be content to let me support you. You don't love me any more. Vera was weeping, softly at first, but Paul was acquainted with her capacity for making a noise as soon as she truly began to enjoy her grief.

Of course, I do, he countered distractedly, and he was grateful at this moment to observe the name of Nora Bayes flash in the announcement frame. Vera chose the instant when the self-confident performer, screened by a preposterously enormous fan of orange feathers, undulated in the direction of the footlights to permit a sob of anguish to escape. As Paul had anticipated, however, this cry was drowned out by the power of sound expelled from the stage. The scene was further interrupted by the arrival of Campaspe and Consuelo. The former took in the situation at once, understood it, and ignored it, seating herself in the place reserved for her and, with a wave of the hand, inviting Consuelo to follow her example. The child was bundled in a cloak of white fox on which she had fastened a spray of brown and


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 yellow orchids. Hesitating a little before she removed this outer covering and her gloves, she sat watching and listening intently to the entertainer on the stage.

She sings so loud: Consuelo explained the reason for her interest, as Miss Bayes retired to change her dress, while the pianist fingered through Chopin's Minute Waltz in a manner which reminded Campaspe of eggs boiling with the advice of a sand-glass. I never heard any one sing so loud before, the awed child continued, not even Rosa Ponselle or Jeritza.

You should hear Sophie Tucker or Eva Tanguay, Paul advised.

Do they sing louder?

Much louder.

I want to, the little girl averred with great simplicity, as she consulted her program.

Vera, whose display of mental anguish had created neither sympathy nor comment, began to dry her eyes. Long ago, Campaspe had learned that the proper manner of dealing with Vera's emotions was to disregard them, for if Vera discovered that she was not pleasing you in one way she immediately tried another. Vera's whole existence had been devoted to a vain effort to please somebody or other. It cannot be said that she ever quite succeeded even in pleasing herself.

Nora Bayes was interpreting another popular ditty.


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 I think she's very clever, Vera, who had now reassumed some semblance of a cheerful, social tone, informed her friends.

She uses her fan well, Campaspe tossed her.

Doesn't she? Vera gushed, grateful for this first slight attention.

It's almost as big as her voice, Consuelo piped up.

Campaspe arrided her. Quite, you delicious child! When do your friends come on, Paul?

They follow this number.

Then we arrived just in time.

Rather, too early. Bayes will sing for half-an-hour.

This apparently mantic prognostication proved to be entirely correct. Miss Bayes rendered song after song, and when, at last, she seemed willing to desist, the crowd in the theatre, by its exuberant applause, persuaded her to begin another, and another, and another. In the end, she made a little speech, kissed her hand, waved her fan in a final flourish, and disappeared from view. Even then, even, indeed, after the illuminated placard had signalled the appearance of the Brothers Steel: Acrobats, the clapping of hands persisted. As it seemed impossible, however, to drag the popular entertainer out again, a general exodus began, and the trio offered the opening moments of their act to an audience composed largely of retreating backs.

It's my O'Grady! Consuelo cried, and then, an-


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 noyed by the sound of retreating footsteps, Why are they all going away?

No one ever stays for the last act of a vaudeville bill, Paul explained, but he was as much put out as Consuelo.

Why not? the child demanded.

It's taken for granted it will be dull.

No longer interrupted by the stamping of outgoing feet, the little group in the box devoted their exclusive attention to the stage. The act began tamely enough, as is customary with acrobats, with a prodigious amount of saltatorial exercise, allez houplaing, and fumbling with handkerchiefs. As it continued, there was a crescendo in the difficulty of the feats. Campaspe had adjusted her lorgnette. Without asking for an identification, she recognized Gunnar at once. The brothers wore moustaches and their hair was piled in a ridiculous fashion above their foreheads. O'Grady's hair was combed straight back and his face was clean shaven. And, although all three were dressed precisely alike in purple tights covering their bodies with the exception of the loins which were encased in indigo trunks, tricked out with gold ruchings and ribbons, she was immediately aware of still more subtle distinctions. It was evident, for instance, that O'Grady possessed a far superior skill to that of the Brothers Steel. Not only did he perform his part in the intricate manœuvres with


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 consummate dexterity, but also there was a rhythm in his movement, a continuity which, Campaspe reflected, she had never before witnessed save in the dancing of Nijinsky. And there was still something else. . ..

Isn't he lovely! Consuelo cried.

The act continued in all its familiar routine, including the swift run of the performers to the footlights, with the terminal raising of the right arm, a traditional gesture which has persisted since the days of the Roman circus, even when there is no public enthusiasm to encourage it. On this occasion, assuredly, there was very little enthusiasm. Not only did the Brothers Steel occupy the final position on the bill, but also they were acrobats. Ignominy in vaudeville could scarcely sink to a lower level. Individual spectators continued to file out, and the theatre was nearly empty when the brothers were going through their last evolutions, in complicated mazes of pleached arms and legs. These, at length, came to an end and the curtain fell, nor did it rise again in response to the faint championship, most of which was contributed by the tiny hands and inadequate physical force of Consuelo. Then, abruptly, to the accompaniment of a jolly tune by George Gershwin, the asbestos curtain was lowered.

It's over, Consuelo sighed.

It was very nice, Vera conceded, very. Still, Miss Bayes. . ..


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 Shall we go back? Paul demanded, hoping they would refuse.

. . . is certainly an artist.

Naturally, Campaspe replied to Paul.

Naturally, was Consuelo's psittaceous comment.

Shall I wait for you, Paul dear? Vera inquired tremulously.

Certainly not, her husband growled. Come along.

At the stage-door, however, they were halted by a human hulk, with a black cigar between its teeth, which informed them that never, by no means, I should say not, could they set foot inside the theatre. As a concession to their obviously plausible appearance he was good enough to add, Rules.

But why? Campaspe insisted. What are the rules for?

Say! Where d'ya tink y'are? At de Bee-lasco? Why? Cause yer might be a heel from de Police Gazette back here to pick up de low-down, or yer might be. . . Say! How de hell do I know who y'are?

Why, the idea! Vera cried, giggling nervously.

Well, we'll wait for him here, Campaspe decided, the weather being propitious enough to make this possible, and she pointed to a long, wooden bench against the wall, on a board above which had been pasted advertisements of and testimonials to various teams and acts. Presently Nora Bayes emerged, a dog in her arms and a coloured maid at her heels.


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 She devoted more than a passing glance to the curious quartet seated on the bench before she entered her car. Now the stage-hands were issuing from the guarded portal, and Consuelo listened to a number of novel words and phrases. Fortunately, her memory was excellent. And, at last, the Brothers Steel and O'Grady. Paul presented the trio to the quartet in one general introduction.

We flopped, Hugo complained.

We'll be back on Pantages next week, Robin sighed.

Nonsense! Gunnar encouraged them. It went all right.

At this moment Gunnar's stare met that of Campaspe and some kind of aberrant communication passed between the two.

Paul, who had not observed this pregnant phenomenon, was corroborating Gunnar's protestation. Vera, not a little thrilled in the presence of so many handsome young men, athletically inclined too, gurgled her enjoyment. Consuelo appeared to be somewhat reserved, even discomfited. Presently, she explained the cause of her annoyance. You don't recognize me! she declared.

Gunnar turned his eyes away from Campaspe to focus them on the child. He seemed to be strangely, and unreasonably, perturbed.

Why, of course, I do, he said. Then, in a whisper. They don't know, the Steels, about the florist. Don't tell them, will you?


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 Delighted to share a confidence, Consuelo gave him the requisite assurance. Then she inquired, When am I going to see you again?

Once more Gunnar looked at Campaspe as he replied, I don't know. He seemed troubled, even a little dazed. Campaspe had not yet spoken one word. Her eyes were hyaline. Paul was chatting with the brothers. Suddenly, without warning, O'Grady broke away from the group and dashed down the street.

Hey! Gunnar! Robin cried. Come along, he urged Hugo, and they followed hot after their vanishing friend.

Consuelo's eyes filled with tears. Paul was petulantly angry. Campaspe's face was a mask. Vera, alone, remained entirely placid.

He's a very nice young man, Mrs. Moody remarked. I wonder why he ran away.


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Two days later, a little after five o'clock in the afternoon, Campaspe again drove up to the stage-door of the Riverside. Theatre. This time she made no futile attempt to besiege the gate, waiting, rather, inher car. The neighbourhood was entirely deserted at first, but presently, performers and stage-hands began to make their way out of the playhouse. It was not long, indeed, before the person whom she attended appeared, in the company of the Brothers Steel. She drew his attention with her eyes and he approached, indubitably with reluctance and even with suspicion. There was, however, Campaspe recognized, something inevitable about his appropinquation. However distasteful to him was this re-encounter, he could not, it was clear, help himself to escape it. Some power quite apart from her own desire had created this condition: of that fact, too, she was instinctively aware.

I felt an inclination for conversation, she explained lightly. Will you drive with me?

Stammering an obviously unwilling assent, he made his excuses to Robin and Hugo and entered the car.


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 The day was crisp and cold, with a brisk wind blowing, but the interior of the automobile was warm and comfortable. For a time the two sat silent. Campaspe did not immediately even look at her new friend. Another might have opened the conversation by remarking, You are wondering why I asked you to come, but Campaspe did nothing of the sort. Instead, she demanded abruptly, as if she had sought him out only to learn the answer, What do you think of Consuelo?

Consuelo? He seemed bewildered, and yet relieved.

The child you met in the flower-shop.

O, the child! I've thought a good deal about her. She interested me. The Persians have a proverb: A tree which comes quickly to maturity never grows very high. He spoke with difficulty. An unwonted embarrassment clouded his tone and gave his phrases a stilted air. He enunciated with great precision, although his intonation was more foreign than usual, with almost a trace of an accent. The car was driving down Riverside Drive. Campaspe ostensibly interested herself with a view of the river.

After a pause Gunnar went on uneasily, as if driven by some invisible pressure to pursue this subject. Is it her father and mother? I mean, have they pushed her?

On the contrary. Her mother is horrified, her


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 father, quiescent, amused. She seems to belong to a different race.

She is so intense. Gunnar appeared to be a little more at his ease. She lives so hard in mind and spirit. Will she burn out?

I, too, have asked myself that question, Campaspe replied soberly, but only a prophet could answer it.

A prophet! Gunnar grasped the word, as though startled by a new idea. How can one go about becoming a prophet?

Campaspe turned her eyes casually towards his face as she responded, It is the easiest and the most difficult state of being in the world to achieve. All it requires is an unceasing reliance on one's own instincts. If you become strong enough to create this magic current, in time it becomes quite possible to understand other people even when they don't understand themselves. But, she sighed, looking back across the river, how few there are who possess the essential forces of purpose and character to bring about this condition.

I know very well now what you mean, Gunnar said, and I think you must be a wise woman.

Some days I wonder if I am; Campaspe apparently was musing aloud. There are hours when I feel that a philosophy of life is unsupportable, that the only people who really live are those who blunder and stumble blindly through.

No, not that! the young man cried vehemently.


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 Never that! His face was aflame with a passionate denial.

What then? she demanded quickly, as if his contradictory spirit had amazed her.

He became calmer at once. I only mean to say, he explained coldly, that the plan, or lack of plan, you have just suggested is not my ideal.

She did not ask him to define his ideal. Instead, she lighted a cigarette, and inquired, Have you seen Paul?

Yes. He came to our gymnasium again last night. Paul has made a great decision: he is going to work.

But are you so sure, was Campaspe's next question, that work will be good for Paul?

Of course, I am. Work is good for everybody. It is even necessary. In a way, he continued, proudly, I made him do it.

Campaspe disregarded this boast. What about the philosopher in his ivory tower, the monk in the desert, the astronomer gazing at the stars? she catechized him.

Dust and ashes, he pronounced solemnly. They don't get anywhere. How can they? Man must work to forget the horror of infinity. These monks and philosophers prompt us to remember it.

Who does get anywhere? she persisted, now scrutinizing his face closely. At this moment she had a curious impression of an unterrestrial radiance


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 glowing on his features, not unlike the flickering effulgence created by a halo.

So few, he responded sadly. Perhaps no one. I wonder if many actually try?

What, after all, does getting somewhere mean?

A new and lighter shade of feeling coloured his tone. Every one, I suppose, has his own peculiar ambitions, he averred; some desire happiness, others hanker after gold, some seek God, others, knowledge. There are those, even, who only want to forget. It seems to have occurred to no one, not even Jesus Christ or Napoleon, to aspire towards everything.

Campaspe regarded the youth with a new interest, and again she was struck by the illusion that an amber glow illumined his features. Was it, she wondered, an effect caused by the mounting of his blood under the rays of the lamp? At any rate, she believed she had never before seen such great beauty in a face, physical, spiritual, and mental beauty, and yet she observed something else there, too, dimming the glory, a suggestion of hideous pain and incessant struggle. She had made no comment after his last statement and, after a pause, he began again, Paul has at least taken a step. Before that he was only one thing, now he is on his way to many.

But I am not so sure, Campaspe argued, that many things will be good for Paul. He had his


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 entity; he was what he was, laughing and careless, perhaps. ..

He has not showed that side of himself to me, Gunnar protested, with a trace of dismay in his tone. Not yet, Campaspe reflected, had the young man removed his eyes from Ambrose's back. If he would only look at her!

Well, he was. . . laughing and careless, until. . . she hesitated. To be perfectly frank, I noticed a certain change in Paul even before he met you.

You see. . . Gunnar was triumphant. . . he was searching.

I am not convinced that Paul has the right to search. However unconsciously, he had realized himself very neatly, very completely, I thought. I still think so. It may not have been a very big self, or a very important self, but it was Paulet's own.

But don't you believe in growth, in change, in accumulation, in collection? Gunnar cried out in astonishment.

I believe, Campaspe asseverated as devoutly as though she were reciting another Credo, that we are born what we are, some one way, some another, that we cannot change, no matter how hard we strive to. All we can do, with whatever amount of effort, is to drag an unsuspected quality out of its hiding place in the unconscious. If it is there, in us, it can neither be virtue nor vice. It can only


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 be ourselves. Whatever it is, if we admit that it belongs to us, we need it to complete ourselves.

No! No! Gunnar cried in torment. I won't believe that! The shadow of torture fell athwart his countenance. Do you think we can get no help from outside?

Yes, that is what I think, that is what I know, that we can hope for no help from outside. . . unless, she qualified this statement, perhaps there may be those who utilize the people they encounter as mirrors. There are times, she went on, when I watch another act, or hear another speak, when I feel at once that this is some hitherto unsuspected part of myself that I have forgotten, or possibly never known about before at all.

Gunnar was making an effort to pull himself together. As she watched him erase the shadow from his face, quickly her mind reverted to Magdalen Roberts and her pamphlet on. The Importance of the Façade. At last, he spoke: Well, possibly the desire to work is a part of Paul that he has forgotten or else never known about.

Campaspe smiled. I doubt that, she said.

If I could believe what you say, Gunnar went on in a kind of reverie, I think it might satisfy me to be like every one else.

But my belief depends on the premise that each of us is a different individual.

Each of us is God, Gunnar asserted with deter-


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 mination. Each can be what he desires to make himself.

Once again Campaspe forfeited an opportunity for asking the obvious question. She appeared to be meditating. And those philosophers in their ivory towers, those desert monks, those astronomers, she insisted, are they not striving to make themselves what they want to be?

It is not enough, Gunnar averred simply. Nothing is enough.

And what is the end of the quest?

There is no end to the quest. There never can be.

Campaspe went back. I fear, she remarked, that Paul has embarked on a ship which has no destination in view. How much happier he might be had he remained safely at home.

Happier, quite possibly. Worthier, no.

I doubt if Paul were created to be a worthy person.

It is his step.

It is your example.

It is, he maintained, a little complacently, Campaspe thought, a good one.

Should I, too, follow it?

That depends entirely on your inclination.

I am interested in your ideas.

You do not know what they are. There was a touch of tragic brusqueness in this retort.


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 Why did you come for me today? Gunnar demanded abruptly.

Why did you come with me? Campaspe countered.

Perhaps I wanted to find out why you had asked me. Perhaps. . . He hesitated. His confusion was apparent.

Her tone shifted. She adopted her most charming manner.

I came for you, she said, because I felt certain that I should be interested in a man who had enthralled both Paulet and Consuelo, in a man whose occupation seems to hover between manual and clerical labour and professional gymnastics. I have not been disappointed, she concluded.

Gunnar groaned. I have walked so far, so light, heartedly, so proudly, so easily, he mumbled. Then, with a sudden transition, Please ask your man to stop the car. His eyelashes were wet.

Let me take you home.

Please ask him to stop.

She did not try again to persuade him. She gave Ambrose the order. As the automobile drew up at the kerb and Gunnar prepared to alight, she took his hand. When, she asked, will you come to see me?

Averting his gaze, he stammered, I am working so hard now. . . Good God! . . . Lunging out of the car, he disappeared almost immediately in the dusk of distance. Campaspe peered through the window, but the only spectacle that rewarded her


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 gaze was the Hotel Shelton, climbing in fragile grace towards the sky.

Frederika had built up the dying fire. Resting one foot on the fender, her legs crossed, Campaspe cupped her chin in her palm, while she considered the curious veils which hang between two personalities. She sensed a definite impression that something distasteful had occurred. A fantastic young man had approached her too closely, not quite closely enough. Riotous and chaotic, her emotions mingled with her thoughts. She was uncomfortably aware of an unpleasant transmutation. She had never before, she was beginning to believe, felt just like this. Sapiently conscious, always, of men's capacity for making fools of themselves, it had never previously been her ambition to curb this propensity. It was more satisfying, generally speaking, to examine the victim while he squirmed on the pin of her observation. Gunnar, indubitably, had aroused in her a new kind of interest. She defined this, not too literally, as an adumbration of the warm glow of motherhood. The boy was, it was apparent, too sensitive to brave the rigours of existence. The pathos of ideals! The unlocked gates of the soul! How much safer, how much more secure one felt if one understood and controlled the cells of this unlocated territory. Life based on disenchantment was comparatively sane; life based on ideals, actually dangerous. She reflected: Could


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 she bring this young man to his senses, effect a salutary disillusion, create a realistic flower-pot in which his obviously fine qualities might blossom? Even as she considered the possibility of this ostensibly altruistic move, she was watching herself at the same time with some cynical amusement, wondering just how far she might become implicated in this drama of sympathy without breaking down her own defences, defences which, up to the present, had served her in every emergency. They had consisted in the raising of several essential bars between herself and those who came into social contact with her. She had, through this method, achieved comparative security. It had saved her the pain of doubt. She had, through its offices, enjoyed her life and she had permitted others to enjoy theirs in their fashion. She had constructed her career from the stones of disillusion: they made a strong fortress. Was she, urged by an inexplicable feeling of tenderness, lowering a drawbridge over the deep moat which separated her from the plain of suffering. Was she. . . ?

Campaspe turned to the table by her side and lifted a small volume. The world of T. F. Powys's peasants, low, mean, despicable, mechanical, material, tawdry, inflamed with hatred and greed and lust, over which hovered a nebulous power that might conceivably save, and yet always withheld a saving hand, had hitherto been sufficiently expressive to her of the world in general. She opened


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 the leaves of The Soliloquies of a Hermit. Several passages were marked: Love one another an impossible ideal. . . people that claw and tear at each other. They steal the moods of God. They do not permit the moods of God to pour freely through them and go. . . . Man is a collection of atoms through which pass the moods of God—a terrible clay picture, tragic, frail, drunken, but always deep rooted in the earth, always with claws holding on to his life while the moods pass over him and change his face and his life every moment. . . . To have the soul and teeth of a lion and the body of a tramp, is the way to tread on this world as it ought to be trodden on. . . . There is something very ugly about the immortal part of a man—his greed, his getting on, his self-sacrifice, his giving to the poor. I suppose there can be nothing beautiful in anything that has gone on a long while without changing; it is only the ugly part of us that can live through so many centuries of flesh and blood. . . . Only at times under His yoke I have been allowed to take a little nectar from the flowers; I have hidden my hand in a waterfall of brown hair; I have caught a hurried kiss from a breathing sunbeam. This is all we can have—all. It is impossible to get more out of the world than it can give. It is best to ruminate like a cow. . . . That is the way of the world, and it happens like that because man's mind can only go to a certain point, and then it breaks. Every mind breaks when it does more than


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 a man can do, and it breaks in unexpected ways. The duty of a philosopher (and the modern philosopher knows his duty) is to keep the sheep; that is to say, to drive the wolves of thought away from the people, and hang the wolves up—in hard and long words, in the philosophers' complex minds that are fitted out with little hooks to hang each wolf up by. . . I believe that the more dead anything is the more it lasts; and the more ignoble a thing is the longer it lasts. The most base thing in me longs the most to live for ever. . . . Campaspe closed the book and stared a long time into the fire. Another quotation had invaded her mind:

Voluptuousness: to the rabble the slow fire at which it is burnt: to all wormy wood, to all stinking rags, the prepared heat and stew furnace.

Voluptuousness: to free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the garden-happiness of the earth, all the future's thanks-overflow to the present.

Voluptuousness: only to the withered a sweet poison: to the lion-willed, however, the great cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wines.

Voluptuousness. ..


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To his amazement Paul discovered that his Wall Street experiment was providing him with more amusement than any recognized form of diversion he had ever practised. In the course of his rounds, ambling from office to office, from bank to bank, he encountered familiar faces everywhere. He was greeted with a hearty Hello, Paul! almost as frequently as he would have been at the country club or on an opening night at the Follies. He had previously formed no conception of the vast number of men of his acquaintance who laboured in the city. Through recent observation of these old friends under conditions new to him, he was beginning to understand why so many pretty, young women who were married to elderly men found it agreeable to occupy themselves with interior decorating or to assume positions as clerks in bookshops. In business, apparently, one met all the people one knew without the disadvantages inherent in the home. Between commercial transactions, vividly exciting in themselves, one listened to all the gossip of the town. Most of these boys were well provided with Orkney, Booth's, and Bacardi. Late in the afternoon, the cocktail shaker tinkled as incessantly as


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 it did in any uptown drawing-room. Cigars were plentiful and a profusion of varieties of expensive cigarettes inhabited boxes on every desk. Paul particularly enjoyed the interminably prolonged luncheons at the Moloch Club, quartered in luxuriously furnished rooms directly under the roof of one of the tallest sky-scrapers where, after devouring a female lobster, one might sit about for an idle hour, with Vanity Fair in one's lap, bending a careless ear to the fellow sitting next to you on the deep, comfortable couch, upholstered in brown leather, and discovering, quite casually, all the details surrounding the latest spouse-breach.

It was not so much, Paul was beginning, justifiably, to believe, to support extravagant wives that men toiled in the city, as was the opinion generally expressed, especially by foreign visitors, as it was to escape from these wives. All his life Paul had listened to business men, in the cloak-rooms at evening parties, or before the sideboard, cocktail glass in hand, or at table, after dinner, bemoan their desperate lot, threatening to retire as soon as they had succeeded in amassing a sufficiently substantial roll. Reflection engendered by his recent personal experience reminded him that he had never known one of these men to carry out this blustering plan. Nevertheless, they continued to reiterate this story to the effect that they were jumping like hell for the dollar today, but that tomorrow they proposed to quit so that they might spend the remainder of


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 their days chasing pleasure around Europe with the Mrs.

This routine, but unpractised, philosophy, Paul soon discovered, was reserved exclusively for uptown dispensation. Observation of these fellows in their proper milieu gave him an entirely new impression of them which, quite reasonably, he conceived to be the true picture. They were having, he was by way of informing himself, an extraordinarily good time. To be sure, they dashed nimbly after the dollar, but even that part of the game resembled gambling or fox-hunting. It was an adventure replete with thrills, false trails, happy discoveries, comic coincidences. There was so much, indeed, of sportsman's luck in everything that went on there that Wall Street was prone to impress him as a kind of glorified Monte Carlo, the Circassian walnut cabinets in each office, stored with liquors and tobacco, supplying the place of the bar, while the Stock Exchange made an excellent substitute for the salle de jeu.

His spirits, accordingly, had risen appreciably, and he even found it possible to enjoy a dinner at home alone with Vera, when it was his present custom to refer portentously, after the best manner of his confreres, to his hard day in the city, and to brag of the transaction he had contrived to carry through by resorting to a vast amount of bluff, while his wife sat by, humbly esteeming this industrial brilliancy on the part of her Viking-like husband.


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 One day in the club, Paul encountered John Armstrong, who laid a strong arm across his shoulders as he saluted him with a Well, old fellow, what are you doing here?

I'm with Lorillard and Company, Paul explained.

The hell you are! How's Mrs. Lorillard? I haven't run into her in years.

'paspe's just the same.

A cold woman! I never understood her. Inconceivable as it might seem, John Armstrong appeared to be brooding. I don't think I've seen her, he went on, after a pause, since the night we all went to Coney Island.

And picked up Zimbule.

That's the night! Say, she's somebody now! Well, he continued, I've been married since then. Got a kid.

That's quick work. I think I heard something about it.

Yep. Husband and father now. We live out at Great Neck. No good to keep a wife too near town. She wants to lunch with you if she's close enough. After my hard day's work I drive out, get home in time to see the kid before he goes to bed. Say, it's great! Come out with me some day.

I'd like to, John.

Whenever you want to. Just drop around to the office about four any day. We'll have a little drink and then I'll drive you out with me. John


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 Armstrong sought a card which he passed over to Paul. Then he changed the subject: Say, do you know the ropes?

What ropes, John?

Well, for examp, the bars. Two floors up and knock three times and there's a drink for you. . . after you've been introduced.

Two floors up where?

Any damned building below Chambers Street. Say, I'll put you wise to something else, Armstrong added darkly. Look out for stenographers.

Do they belong to the Ku Klux? Paul demanded, smiling.

Worse. The cuties sit on your lap and invite you by their willing manner to take them out to dinner, and first thing you know along comes a shyster lawyer with a breach of promise blackmailing prospectus.

Whew! Paul exclaimed, not incredulous.

Sure. Cupid's been stung several times.

His name never gets into the papers.

Sure it doesn't, John Armstrong explained with some disgust. He fixes it up. Last time cost him thirty-five thous. Say, it would have paid him to stick to moving-picture stars. Zimbule O'Grady let him off easy. He's a heel when it comes to skirts. I never get caught myself, but then, he added, the Janes are crazy about me. Nuts, he emphasized, plain nuts over your Uncle John.


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 Then there was the other type of conversation, equally fascinating to Paul, which ran something like this:

Castor-oil's sixty-seven: watch out for a slump.

I'm getting out.

Well, I'm glad you told me. I was going to unload sooner or later, but if you're getting out that'll overload the market more'n the traffic can bear. I'll get out today myself.

That's my advice to you.

George Everest had been extremely valuable to Paul in the manipulation of certain transactions, Florizel Hammond was a mine of indelicate gossip, and Jack Draycott was always ready to take or dispense a drink. It was even amusing to lunch with Harvey Wetmore, who always asked the waiter if one order would be enough for two, as was the custom with men as rich as Harvey Wetmore. That was why, Paul reflected, they were rich.

Paul found enchantment in this delightful novelty. The rules for playing the game differed in every respect from the rules which governed uptown life, and it was part of the fun to acquire a knowledge of these. Paul wondered, indeed, why he had not experimented with the business world sooner. Far from the worst feature of this career was the fact that it seemed to be comparatively easy to make money. When you made any at all, Paul noted, you made more than he had ever been able to extract from his father at one time. Occasionally,


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 of course, some poor chap lost his shirt, but usually a good gamble on the market, played with a tip from Cupid or George, would bring it back to him in no time. With Cupid as guardian, indeed, Paul believed he stood no chance of losing at all. He began to have dreams, as a matter of fact, of an independent income.

Cupid, he demanded one day, why the hell didn't you tell me long ago how damned attractive it was down here?

They were sitting in Mr. Lorillard's private office, panelled to the ceiling with Circassian walnut, richly grained and polished, their chairs and the desks, of the same wood, standing on a blue and yellow Chinese rug. The windows, opening between copper-coloured hangings, overlooked—the room was on the thirty-ninth floor—streets lying low in vast canyons formed by rows of towering sky-scrapers. The view included the bridge, gracefully swung on its cables across the East River, which was alive with tugs and barges. On a roof nearby, a lad with a long pole stirred a flock of Pigeons to flight.

Cupid, bald and podgy, whose countenance never seemed to lose a pitiful expression of anxiety, was obviously puzzled. It's all right here, of course, he replied, but just what do you mean?

Why, the game's great, the view's immense, and it's all so damned much fun.

I suppose it is, Cupid admitted lugubriously, and


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 yet I never enjoy it very much. Nothing ever seems to go right with me.

Bosh, old chap. Campaspe had often informed Paul that Cupid was pathetic, but somehow he had never sensed this quality in Mr. Lorillard before today. After all, one so seldom saw him on Nineteenth Street.

There's Campaspe, for instance, Cupid continued in his plaintive strain. I don't understand her and I never shall. You wouldn't either, he asserted, flushed and defiant, if you were married to her.

I understand Vera to the last eyelash. Paul grinned sardonically.

Well, there's a difference. You're not in love with Vera. I've always been wild about my wife and she treats me like. . . like. . . Cupid hesitated for a figure.

Like the father of your sons, Paul suggested.

Well, I don't know that she even does that, Cupid dubiously dissented. Then there was Zimbule, he went on, and Susan and Emily and Armide. ..

Armide?

Yes, it was her name that got me, too. She was French.

Did she burn the palace and escape on a hippogryph? Paul demanded.

I'm not sure about the hippogryph, but she certainly burned the palace. She burned it last week. The little man sighed.


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 I heard something about it, Paul responded sympathetically, but I didn't catch her name.

Paul, Cupid groaned, I'm a boob with women, a simp. They can get anything out of me, and the only way I can find love is to buy it. Nobody cares for me for myself.

You're a good egg, Paul assured him.

You bet your life I'm a good egg, good and easy enough to eat! Do you know what the trouble is, Paul? I should never have gone into business. I used to play the bass-viol, and if I had kept up my music I would have led an entirely different life. . . got something out of it.

Paul lighted a cigarette. What about those stocks, Cupid? he inquired.

Cupid gave him a quick, intense glance. I can't understand you, Paul. This interest of yours in affairs. You always come back to stocks. God! You're exploding a proverb! Lucky in business and lucky with women, too.

I suppose it's because I know their place, Paul explained modestly.

Don't you ever fall for a skirt? Cupid queried, wide-eyed. Doesn't it ever get you?

Paul reflected. I've fallen once or twice, he responded, but I guess it wasn't for a skirt. More likely, it was for a mesh-bag.


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 That night in the great dining-room, facing the vast wall-painting by Rubens, representing Helena Fourment in the foreground as the central figure of a Sabine rape, Paul sat at table with Vera.

I didn't like it one bit at first, that lady admitted, the dimples in her round cheeks deepening under her smiles, but now I'm proud of you, Paul.

Proud?

Yes, dear. I hate your being away all day, but I console myself by remembering that you used to go out just as much before you went to work. And now, after all, I know where you are, with all those big, strong, manly men down in Wall Street, fighting the fight for bread. Why, Mr. Whittaker was as poor as anything when he started out.

It always amused Paul to hear more about Mr. Whittaker; he took up the subject.

Did he fight hard, Vera?

Did he? She served herself to a bountiful helping of a particularly fattening variety of pudding. Did he? Well, he just fought until he conquered down among the bears and oxen. It was wheat that made his fortune, she mused. Ceres, the great nature goddess, did that for us. I always told Bristol that we should worship nature! Now if I had been a Roman. . . . ! Her imagination was not equal to rounding out this sentence and a spoonful of pudding which she had just inserted in her mouth would have rendered the feat difficult in any case.


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 Wheat? Paul purred interrogatively.

O, I don't mean he mowed, Vera explained, but he took off his coat in the pit. . . and did—she waved a chubby arm as if an understanding of such matters was beyond the scope of a young and pretty woman—what men do, she concluded limpingly.

And where, she demanded, would I be if it hadn't been for Bristol fiercely tramping up and down in the pit with his coat off? Where would you be, for that matter? We're enjoying the fruits of his struggles, and Paul—her husband noted that she had assumed her most endearing manner, the manner he most feared—at first I didn't see why we shouldn't, and that's why I cried so hard when you went down there too. O! I said to myself, isn't it enough that one man has done it? Isn't one martyr enough for one cause? Why has my beloved Paul got to go down and suffer and sweat and take off his coat and die when Mr. Whittaker has already done it and left us enough to feed an army with? I thought it would be just dreadful to have you away too, Paul, until the other day I remembered that you're away so much anyway, with your friends, that it is an actual relief to know approximately where you are, and you've done so splendidly now, and it gives me so much to talk about when I go out. Paul, she concluded, offering him the glance of an amorous and dying swan, I tell everybody that you are supporting me now!

It must surprise them.


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 It petrifies them. And Paul, I hope you won't mind. . . but I bought this ring today. She exhibited an emerald, cut en cabochon, the size of a wren's egg.

Vera dear, why should I mind? So long as Mr. Whittaker's gold, won in the sweat and turmoil of the pit, holds out, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't buy anything you like.

O, but Paul, I haven't told you everything. I explain that you gave it to me!

After dinner they sat in the spacious drawing-room with its guilloches carved by Grinling Gibbons, which had been purchased by the late Mr. Whittaker from an impecunious English peer, with its massive Dutch marquetry cabinets, on which were ranged pots of splendid flowering plants, created by patient Chinese artists out of jade, alabaster, jacinth, sardonyx, beryl, agate, crystal, and cornelian. In needle-point arm-chairs husband and wife faced each other in front of the fire. Silence had fallen between them. Vera yawned occasionally; Paul, frequently.

I'm going out, Paul announced a little later.

On this awful night! Vera reproached him. It's damp and chilly and there's a nasty drizzle. I'm so afraid you'll catch cold. Where are you going? she questioned him suspiciously.

To see Gunnar.

That acrobat! I don't want to seem fussy about


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 your friends, Paul, only you've known some strange people in your old bohemian days—I'll never forget that ridiculous Bunny—and now that you're in business I had hoped. ..

Paul rose, stretching himself, and yawned again.

Still—she was consoling herself aloud for the ineffectuality of her remonstrance—Campaspe knows him. There must be something.

There is, Vera, I assure you, there is something. Bending over her chair he lightly brushed the back of her head with his lips. When he had departed, the tears coursed slowly down the lonely woman's chubby cheeks. Mr. Whittaker, stern, unyielding in the matter of his prejudices, with a firmly fixed idea that a wife's place was in her home, had ruled her with his strong will, and now Paul Moody was able, she had discovered, to rule her by his very nonchalance. Well, she reflected, to salve the pain of the knowledge, men must work and women must weep.

Paul did not call the car from the garage, nor did he hail a taxi. He had donned a heavy, waterproof coat and, without the protection of an umbrella, he strode with long paces through the rain-swept streets. The beating of the stinging drops against his cheeks invigorated and refreshed him. His customary cheerful spirit returned. Life was amusing, after all. Work was amusing. Even Vera contributed her share to the savour of his


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 happiness. She made so little trouble and she possessed such a delightfully unconscious vein of humour. As Paul stepped into a doorway to light a cigarette, he began to chuckle over a new idea which had occurred to him. How ironic, how ludicrously perverse, it would be to support Vera, supposing war or failure or some other great human or natural force should suddenly sweep away the Whittaker millions!

With such idle reflections he whiled away his walk until, almost before he was aware of it, he was climbing the stairs which led to the atelier of the Brothers Steel. In response to his knock Mrs. Hugo opened the door.

O, Mr. Moody, she cried, I'm so glad to see you!

Where are the boys?

Why, they're not home from the show yet. I was just cookin' supper for them.

Paul consulted his watch. It's just after ten, he said. How long. . . ?

Any minute, now. They got a better spot on the bill this week. They're Number 1.

Where are they working?

Brooklyn. Of course, she went on, with a courageous interpretation of the facts of life, the while she stirred a mixture in the pot on the stove with a long spoon, Number 1 isn't the best spot, but it's better to have folks walkin' in on you than walkin' out on you.

In the circumstances Paul considered this excellent


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Proclamation No. 1102 (Marcos)

, the Constitution proposed by the nineteen hundred seventy-one Constitutional Convention is subject to ratification by the Filipino people;

, Citizens Assemblies were created in barrios in municipalities and in districts/wards in chartered cities pursuant to Presidential Decree No. 86, dated December 31, 1972, composed of all persons who are residents of the barrio, district or ward for at least six months, fifteen years of age or over, citizens of the Philippines and who are registered in the list of Citizen Assembly members kept by the barrio, district or ward secretary;

, the said Citizens Assemblies were established precisely to broaden the base of citizen participation in the democratic process and to afford ample opportunity for the citizenry to express their views on important national issues;

, responding to the clamor of the people and pursuant to Presidential Decree No. 86–A, dated January 5, 1973, the following questions were posed before the Citizens Assemblies or Barangays: Do you approve of the New Constitution? Do you still want a plebiscite to be called to ratify the new Constitution?

, fourteen million nine hundred seventy-six thousand five hundred sixty one (14,976,561) members of all the Barangays (Citizens Assemblies) voted for the adoption of the proposed Constitution, as against seven hundred forty-three thousand eight hundred sixty-nine (743,869) who voted for its rejection; while on the question as to whether or not the people would still like a plebiscite to be called to ratify the new Constitution, fourteen million two hundred ninety-eight thousand eight hundred fourteen (14,298,814) answered that there was no need for a plebiscite and that the vote of the Barangays (Citizens Assemblies) should be considered as a vote in a plebiscite;

, the referendum results show that more than ninety-five (95) per cent of the members of the Barangays (Citizens Assemblies) are in favor of the new Constitution, the Katipunan ng Mga Barangay has strongly recommended that the new Constitution should already be deemed ratified by the Filipino people;

, President of the Philippines, by virtue of the powers vested in me by the Constitution, do hereby certify and proclaim that the Constitution proposed by the nineteen hundred and seventy-one (1971) Constitutional Convention has been ratified by an overwhelming majority of all the votes cast by the members of all the Barangays (Citizens Assemblies) throughout the Philippines, and has thereby come into effect.

, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the seal of the Republic of the Philippines to be affixed.

Done in the City of Manila, this 17th day of January, in the year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-three.

Rh By the President: Rh

title: Proclamation No. 1102 (Marcos)


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 philosophy; under other conditions he wondered if it would be as true.

At this juncture, the knob turned slowly in the door and the brothers, muffled in scarfs and greatcoats, entered. Their manner was gloomy and solemn, and they were unaccompanied.

Hello, mother. Hello, Paul, they glumly muttered in unison.

Why, what's the matter? Mrs. Hugo dropped her spoon.

Just as bad as can be, said Robin.

Worse, Hugo moaned.

Their jaws dropped.

Well now, is your time cancelled?

Worse, Hugo jerked out.

You didn't sprain your wrist again? She felt the pulse of her physically sound husband.

Worse, Robin groaned, much, much worse.

Gunnar's left us, mother, Hugo was at last able to explain.

Gone! Robin sobbed.

The twins had seated themselves side by side on the bench against the wall, their huge shoulders meeting, the pattern of their moustaches repeating itself ridiculously on their dejected countenances.


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The disappearance of Gunnar, on the whole, aroused comparatively little astonishment in Campaspe; she was not, however, altogether free from a certain sensation of relief. There had been, she was fully aware, underground rumblings in their latest conversation which foretold in hollow tones the advent of emotional earthquakings. To tread lightheartedly over such fissures, portents of the anger of nature, had not been, hitherto, too difficult for a lady who protected herself with an adroitly secure philosophy, a philosophy which, supported by a few simple rules in respect to conduct, had never yet failed her even when the way split, figuratively speaking, under her feet. In this instance, however, she foresaw that the fissures would open between her and another, whose guiding star of idealism might not lead him safely to stable ground. He might conceivably, she argued, with a part of herself that seldom became conscious, appeal to her for aid in this extra-emergency, and push or pull her with him into the aching jaws of the chasm. He had had, she assured herself, a like premonition of impending disaster, and had rescued himself by the obvious device of running away from the danger, a


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 habitual propensity of his, she noted, not without annoyance. Campaspe's own temperament forbad her to run away from anything. She was prepared to face whatever came towards her; in most instances, indeed, to welcome it; more, to beckon it excitedly. She had, as a matter of fact, up to this moment, taken the initiative in the precise drama undergoing her present consideration, and so it was with a curious foreboding that she experienced, quite uncharacteristically, this vast sensation of relief in the knowledge of Gunnar's flight, combined with the feeling that his action had preserved her, at least momentarily, from an unknown peril of which she was just a little afraid. Nevertheless, with this sensation of relief came to her simultaneously a glimmering of regret, for there was that unique perversity in her emotional make-up which made her grieve for nothing quite so poignantly as for discarded experience. It was Gunnar, however, who had created the vacuum, if there were a vacuum—sometimes, pondering in an obscure and contradictory reverie, it was given to her to doubt even this—a thought which afforded her sufficient consolation so that, along with whatever other loss she had suffered, she suffered no concomitant loss of self-respect.

Meanwhile the rapidly unwinding panorama of New York life continued to display itself before her somewhat listless perceptions. A tenet of her serviceable philosophy informed her that, if the com-


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 plete satisfying of any desire were for some reason impossible there was always a substitute, a theory which, if it did not appear to hold as much plausibility as formerly, was at any rate still sufficiently reassuring to encourage her to look about, and, as always, she found something to look at. Laura, trembling before the precocity of Consuelo, in turn applauded by George, was a complex spectacle that would have commanded her attention to the exclusion of all other exhibitions in a more propitious period. Even in her present mood this show succeeded in arousing a good deal of her latent interest. Further, the extraordinary case of Paul offered her abundant material for cogitation. Paul, invading Cupid's realm, apparently a slave to the hitherto unsuspected delights of the marts of trade and commerce, served to excellently substantiate her conviction that it was never advisable to decline to drink out of any fountain before one had sampled the water. Vera, too, unhappy Vera, plunged alternately into depths of liquid melancholy and unpleasant and ungovernable demonstrations of blustering fatuousness by this metamorphosis in the supposedly natural characteristics of her spouse, was another object to repay at least superficial study.

Musing in such a manner one day, Campaspe began to believe that enough blessings in the way of vicarious emotion had been vouchsafed her so that she might devote a few idle moments to the casual


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 inspection of a book with an unpromising title. Upon examination, this unlikely volume rewarded her none too close scrutiny with novel information concerning certain architectural aberrations in the world with which she had been, until then, entirely unfamiliar. It was delightful, for example, to read about the insane but realized structural fantasy known as the Villa Palagonia. The eccentric Prince who had caused the erection of this edifice had filled his courtyard with statues of unseemly monsters, of which, it appeared, he lived in some fear. Another of his idiosyncrasies was the collection of the horns and antlers of every known mammal that carried these utilitarian decorations. He also indulged a frantic passion for mirrors. His ball-room was roofed and walled with looking-glasses. Further, it had been the Prince's fancy to construct his dining-room in the form of a horse-shoe, a symbol repeated in the shape of the table. The walls of this chamber were inlaid with Chinese porcelain, giving the place the appearance of a huge vase, while the furniture was inlaid with mirrors. Nor was it disagreeable to peruse the account of the Palace-Convent of Mafra, erected near Lisbon by King João V, in an attempt, more or less successful, to rival the gloomy splendour of the Escurial. The chambers of this building were of such mammoth proportions that the walls could scarcely be counted on interminably to support the heavy ceilings, but these walls were so cunningly constructed that if they


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 fell they would fall inward, burying under the weight of stones the secret of the creation of this palace, if there were a secret. Again, it was diverting to become acquainted with the baroque harmonies of the Prefettura and Seminario, reared in a stone of a golden hue, so soft when quarried that it might be carved into the most fantastic shapes before, in a few days, it hardened, in the Apulian town of Lecce which, she noted with a smile, was famous for the manufacture of that essential eighteenth century commodity, castrati, an industry as much frowned on legally in that epoch as bootlegging is today. There was always, Campaspe still believed, something left to think about.

Moreover, as the day wore on, other distractions presented themselves so that, as yet, there seemed to be no occasion for her to apply to Swamis, Coués, or Freuds. She recognized the fact, however, that the world in general, and New York in particular, would lose a great deal of their savour if there were not some persons who continued to subscribe to the panaceas advocated by these hierophants, performing all the prescribed rites with due solemnity. They were an essential part of the human circus and she knew that she would miss them if they were absent. Nevertheless, what she craved most in her present mood was a certain wholesome sanity, and where could she ever hope to find that again? Was there, she wondered, no shadow of it left on this


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 sphere save that by no means modest share which she locked in her own bosom?

The distractions were various. A cabinet-maker arrived for the purpose of restoring a Boulle desk of which a great deal of the brass scroll-work was missing, but, after an interview with him, Campaspe decided to leave the wreck, for the time being, in its present condition. The artisan was so little conversant with the properties of this type of furniture that he had even referred to the tortoise-shell as lacquer. A little later, she tried some Chinese records, which had just been sent to her, on the phonograph, and was amazed to discover how clear and pellucid, how limpidly lovely, this music was. It was the kind of music, indeed, that the more sophisticated French and Spanish composers were just beginning to compose, and Chinese music had always been referred to as ugly noises! I might have known, she averred to herself, that a race which has understood every other art for centuries would not be backward in the art of music. And she marvelled that it had been possible for any admirer of Mozart to disregard the magic of this oriental melody with its odd rhythms, its rigidly irregular monotony, and its fascinating clang-tints. From Chinese music her thoughts escaped to a consideration of the curiously sure genius of a young Mexican boy, Miguel Covarrubias, who created caricatures of celebrities, whom he knew only by sight and name,


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 which exposed the whole secret of the subjects' personalities. Here was clairvoyance. And his drawings of Negroes crystalized the essential characteristics of the race, withal each was drawn with as eager an eye for individual traits as directed the pen of Albrecht Dürer. Material for admiration here. This meditation was interrupted by a summons from the cook.

Now ordinarily—indeed, invariably—the cook was Frederika's job. Frederika engaged the cook, ordered the meals, and when she was unsatisfactory, discharged her. Campaspe could not recall that she had ever seen this particular cook, so that it was not without a certain amount of curiosity that she received Frederika's breathless announcement that this servant demanded an audience. She insists on complaining to you personally, Frederika apologized, and says she'll go if you won't see her. She's a very good cook, the maid added, in palliation for this unusual procedure of the unloading of her own troubles on Campaspe's back. Campaspe decided at once that she would humour the woman, but she spent a few moments amusing herself by selecting the setting for the interview. Should she invade the kitchen or should she invite the cook to confer with her in the drawing-room? She gave her ultimate approval to the former location and was pleased with her choice when she stood facing this great, raw-boned, gaunt and elderly, Irish female, with stray wisps of grey hair and red face with prom-


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 nentinent [sic] cheek-bones, lustily stirring a mixture in a brown crockery bowl on the table before her. She did not desist when confronted by her mistress, nor did she invite her to sit down. Was it etiquette, Campaspe demanded of herself, for a cook in her own domain to request her employer to seat herself? She listened to the cook's complaint, which included a diatribe against the scullery-maid whose belief in Christian Science made her presence distasteful to the cook who was a Catholic. The waitress, it appeared, had a policeman keeping company with her, and Frederika occasionally helped herself to a nip of sherry. These denunciations were delivered in a belligerent fashion and accompanied by a prodigious stirring of the mixture in the bowl which, Campaspe realized with a sort of awe, was something she herself would be eating later in the day. The performance was concluded with a florid peroration of some length in which the cook summed up her troubles and cried, Them or me goes, standing arms akimbo, the great wooden spoon stuck out at a right angle, so that it suggested some mysterious medizval weapon. Never previously, Campaspe assured herself, had she known so much about the private lives of her servants. It gave her the impression that she was a feudal lord dispensing justice to his serfs. Nevertheless, she recognized her impotence. She could scarcely limit the choice of the waitress in the matter of young men, nor could she instruct the scullery-maid to alter her faith.


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 Frederika's taste for sherry, as a matter of fact, seemed highly creditable. As Solomon, Campaspe said to herself, I am a failure. I cannot render decisions. She relied, instead, on a formula which had proved efficacious in many similar situations in other ranks of life. She entreated the cook to comprehend that she was a superior person who should be able to get along with her inferiors. They know no better, these others, she explained; so let them have their way. This argument, she could see, was not without making its effect. The cook, indeed, warmed perceptibly, sufficiently, at any rate, so that she returned to her work. As an additional precaution, Campaspe suggested to Frederika the advisability of offering the cook a nip of sherry now and then. She also inquired of the waitress if she were acquainted with another policeman sufficiently blind to feminine charm so that he might be persuaded to call occasionally on the cook. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.

The letters of the past few days had gathered on a tray and it now occurred to Campaspe that she might take the time to look these over. For the most part, as she had presurmised, they were not of any great import. The inspection of invitations and bills never succeeded in giving her much pleasure, but it was fun to open an invitation to a luncheon which had been given the day before to "meet Lady Diana Manners," and to read a typewritten epistle requesting her to serve on a committee to


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 decide what kind of animal the Girl Scouts of America should present to the Bronx Zoo. I think, she murmured to herself, that I shall recommend a garter snake. A characteristic note from Lalla Draycott she dropped after glancing at a line or two. At the bottom of the heap, or as near the bottom as Campaspe ever penetrated, she discovered a large envelope from the Ritz, addressed in a feeble, scrawling hand, which she did not immediately recognize. On examination it proved to be from the Countess Nattatorrini who, it seemed, had arrived in New York.

Campaspe had met the Countess one afternoon several years before at the hôtel of the Duchess of Guermantes. The occasion, on the whole, had been dull enough; still, Campaspe had derived a certain oblique entertainment from listening to Oriane discuss the peculiar reasons why she could and did know certain people and the still better reasons why she could not know others. Presently, the Countess, who even then must have been in her seventies, had gravitated towards her, believing her doubtless to be a person of some importance, as she was the only American, with the exception of her titled self, she had ever known Oriane to invite to her house. The curious confusion of grande dame and courtesan which Campaspe had at once sensed in the countenance of this elderly lady had caused her to make an effort to create a sympathetic atmosphere, which had proved sufficiently alluring so that the Countess


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 had asked her to lunch with her the next day, and then and there began a friendship based, on the part of the Countess, on a blind desire to discover an indulgent listener, and, on Campaspes part, on a willingness to listen. Then one day, the confessional had become a shambles. Throwing off what little remained of her reserve, the Countess had related the sorry details of her curiously monotonous career, like casting swine before pearls, Campaspe thought, and she wondered if she had been the Countess's only confessor save the priest, so complete was the woman's self-denigration and so passionate her enjoyment of it. Their relationship had assumed more formality after this breach in decorum—it is natural to turn against a person to whom you have told too much about yourself—and soon after Campaspe had left Paris. Since then, whenever she had visited the French capital, the Countess had been away en villegiature or in London, so that this was the first opportunity offered her to renew the acquaintanceship. Noting that the letter had been mailed two days earlier, she sent Frederika at once to the telephone with instructions.

In a few moments the maid returned. The Countess is not feeling very well, she explained, and does not wish to go out. She asks if you will lunch with her.

Of course, Campaspe replied. Tell her I shall be delighted.

On the way to the Ritz she recalled that she had


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 agreed to join Hubert Miles and his young wife at Voisin's, but she did not regret this lapse of memory which, perhaps, had not been altogether unconscious. Driving up Park Avenue she peered ahead at the terraced apartment houses rising on either side. Soon, she mused, New York will resemble ancient Babylon. It will become a city of terraced palaces, with balconies and aerial gardens. How much New Yorkers like to move! There is the endless search for a new environment. The average life of any smart colony is only five years. It will soon be as bad form to live on Park Avenue as it is now to live on Riverside Drive. The present pilgrimage is towards the East River around Sutton Place or Beekman Place. In ten years, First Avenue, which adjoins these localities, will probably be the Park Avenue of its decade. Then Campaspe's mind reverted to a street further up the river she had herself discovered, a delightfully quiet street facing a little park. Later, in the spring, the boats on the stream could be discerned through the green of the trees. No one else had yet marked the charm of this particular spot. If I bought a house there I suppose enough of my world would follow me to make it a profitable investment, Campaspe reflected.

The formal Louis XVI drawing-room, in the suite occupied by the Countess, invaded by the contents of her trunks, was in appalling disorder. Robes were strewn over all the chairs, but tall crystal


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 vases of American Beauty roses gave a sense of decorative grace to the place. Through an open doorway Campaspe caught a glimpse of three innovation trunks standing open in the bedroom. Chairs, bed, and floor were littered with a profusion of hats and gowns from the Parisian couturieres, while a maid struggled futilely to put an end to this confusion.

My trunks have just arrived; I had such difficulties with the douane, the Countess explained, after kissing Campaspe on both cheeks. You will pardon the appearance of my rooms. ..

She chattered on in a kind of passionate endeavour to keep from thinking, Campaspe decided, as she made a rapid examination of the figure before her. At first, the false teeth, the hollow cheeks, artfully tinted with red, the ravaged throat, concealed beneath a broad band of black velvet, were a trifle repulsive, but in a little while, this unfortunate initial impression wore away. After all, Campaspe summed it up, she is seventy-seven; may I look as well when I attain that age! She was truly amazing, this woman. Her figure was not bad: her dress made it even presentable. Her white hair gave her an air of distinction, and Campaspe again mentally admired the contradictions in her face, her full sensual lips and staring eyes, mingled with an expression that stamped her at heart as utterly conventional. Possibly Iowa had presented her with this paradoxical respectability.


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 However that might be, it was the quality that had saved the Countess from the gutter, Campaspe realized.

It soon became evident that Madame Nattatorrini was fortunate only in appearance. In other respects she was a pathetic, old woman, as restless as the Wandering Jew, always searching and never finding. The undiscovered secret of perpetual motion might, after all, be lust. Why had no inventor ever contrived to enslave this terrifying force, to turn it to practical account? There was not, to be sure, more than a hint of this vehement, unsatisfied desire in the actual words used by the Countess in speaking, but it was easy for Campaspe to look through the nervous, the almost shrill, commonplaces of what was said into the harassed soul of senile agony and longing.

Paris is so tiresome! the Countess was complaining, after an extended account of her prolonged argument with the customs officials. I felt I could bear it no longer. I was dying for a change! She threw out her arms and tossed her head. Would New York, I wondered, offer me what I wanted? I have heard so much about the post-war gaieties here. Some of my friends have told me that it is the most brilliant city in the world today. I wanted to try it. Shall we lunch up here? I don't feel very fit today, not well enough to face a crowd in the restaurant. Alceste, nous voulons dejeuner ici. But, she continued, without a break, it is so


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 cold, so rainy, so forbidding. I recall that the sun used to shine in America in the winter. I think I should like to go to Buenos Ayres, to the Argentine, to get warm. I saw Valentino in that picture! What a handsome fellow he is! South America must be warmer, but there is no one to go with me.

I wish I might take the trip with you, Campaspe interjected, instantly detecting the Countess's mental rejection of any such proposal.

I should have married again; I am so much alone, the Countess sighed, while the waiter offered her the menu. Will you try the sole? I should have borne children, like you. When you reach my age you will have your babies, your own sons—Ella's expression was avid at the mention of this sex—to be with you, to go with you where you will. I am all alone. What will you eat?

That question settled, the waiter having departed to execute the order, the Countess burst forth again: He was extremely good-looking. There was a line to his nose. Do they have Greek waiters here? The Swiss are so short. . . . Paris is so dull. What is every one doing here? No, I don't play Mah Jong. . . . I know so few people in New York intimately—I've spent so much of my life with foreigners. Perhaps, it has been all wrong. Do you think it is too late? O, Campaspe, you must help me to undo the effect on my spirits caused by this rain! Does it rain all the time here? It's even worse than Paris.


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 You'll see the sun occasionally, Campaspe replied. On days like this I usually keep my curtains drawn. I never know that the weather is bad unless I go out.

I'm tired of the theatre, the Countess went on. I hear that Gareth Johns is in town. Twenty-six years ago, she sighed, it was that. . . Have you seen him? Have you met his wife?

Not yet. I expect to meet them next week.

What is his wife like? Have you heard? He married her, you know, for her money.

No, I haven't heard, but I know what she must be like. She's a quiet, little woman, rather frumpy probably, who smoothes out his moods and polishes off the rough contacts. The life of an author's wife is the life of a laundress. Always washing and ironing!

Campaspe, you are delicious. The Countess was amused for the first time, and an expression of pleasure spread over her countenance. I knew I should do well to come to New York. You will cheer me up in spite of the rain!

An hour later, as she drove away from this encounter, Campaspe felt a new twinge of her morning dissatisfaction. There was getting to be too much of this sort of thing in the world. Was there, she asked her gods, no hint of sanity anywhere?


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George, Laura Everest tearfully exclaimed to her husband one evening on his return from the City, I just don't know what to do about Consuelo!

What's the trouble now, Laura? George demanded indifferently, a trifle bored by his wife's chronic, if still bewildered, complaint.

She wants to become an acrobat, wants to study with those awful circus People she met through Campaspe.

George chuckled. I thought she met them first.

Well, at any rate she never would have seen that man again if Campaspe hadn't invited her to go to the Riverside. If I had known. . . !

Why not let her, Laura?

Are you out of your head, George?

George shielded a permanent smile behind the newspaper he held in his hands as he persisted, Why not let her, I say? All the babies in town are doing something of the sort now. Hiram Mason's son is studying pugilism, doubtless with the intention of challenging Young Stribling. Ira Barber's little girl is striving to acquire the rudiments of interpretative dancing. Already her picture, in Greek costume, has appeared in the illustrated section of the


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 Sunday Times. Maida Sonsconsett, aged nine, attends the Institute where Dalcroze Eurythmics are expounded, and Helen Blair has gone in for Gurdjieff. . ..

That is an entirely different matter, and you know it, George, Laura expostulated. Everybody has gone in for Gurdjieff, but acrobats are vulgar.

Laura dear, you're not up on acrobats. Why, I recently read somewhere or other that all circus performers are good to their wives, never get divorces, and attend church services regularly. They never drink and they never swear. Laura, if the younger generation is insisting on physical training, I don't think we could put Consuelo in more moral hands.

George, you're not serious. You are praising middle-class virtues. Do you want your daughter brought up that way?

I am serious. I don't think it would do Consuelo any harm at all to imbibe a few middle-class ideas. Of course, we'll ask Miss Pinchon to accompany her to the studio or whatever they call it and chaperon Consuelo while she takes her lesson. In a short time, doubtless, she will be able to turn cartwheels and handsprings all over the drawing-room floor. The Masons and the Sonsconsetts and the Barbers and the Blairs will die of envy. I predict that you'll live to see an epidemic of fashionable acrobats. Think of it: they can all perform together like a troupe of Arabs. You'll always have enter-


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 tainment for an evening party. And if I lose my money, he added slyly, Consuelo will have a profession. She can support us in our old age.

George! Will you never be serious?

Laura, Consuelo knows too much. George certainly was more serious now. Why, already she's read books that you and I will never read, and probably wouldn't understand if we did. This is a dangerous state of affairs. If we don't look out for her she'll fall ill. Physical culture is the very thing she needs.

She'll develop horrid muscles on her arms and legs!

You're thinking of the ballet. This sort of thing is quite different, Laura. She won't learn to stand on her toes; she'll learn to stand on her head.

Ultimately Laura was persuaded if not convinced. A day or so later, vetoing her final protestations, George paid a call on the Brothers Steel to discuss the matter. Hugo and Robin, disconsolate over the defection of Gunnar, their booking over the Orpheum Circuit cancelled and their time on the Pantages dated a month ahead, were immeasurably cheered by the profitable prospect that opened before them, and gave their ready assent to the plan.

After George Everest's departure, sitting, as was their wont, side by side on the long bench, stroking their moustaches in unison, their faces actually assumed an expression of hope. Observing this sign, Mrs. Hugo suggested that the scheme had infinite


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 future possibilities. You'd be home all the time, boys, and I'm sure you'll get more pupils and make a pile of money, and never have to worry about bookin' no more. This was, indeed, they believed, a new idea which might prove remunerative. Now that a connection had been formed with the upper East Side, more rich little boys and girls might be induced to apply for instruction in the acrobatic arts. If this possibility faded, they might take on poor little boys and girls and train them for the circus and the vaudeville stage. The idea had never occurred to them before, and now it had been put into their heads by a business man from Wall Street! If Gunnar were only here to offer them advice and encouragement! Their faces fell again.

One morning, shortly after their interview with her father, Consuelo, accompanied by Miss Pinchon, appeared at the gymnasium. Mrs. Hugo conducted the child behind the curtains and assisted her in donning the costume which her mother had provided. When she emerged from the recess, her arms bare, her slender hips encased in baggy knickerbockers, she presented, with her pale, solemn face, shadowed by golden curls, her great staring eyes, and her slender arms and legs, an extremely curious picture. Miss Pinchon had brought a book with her, but she did not open it. Her gaze was portentously ardent.

Well, Miss Consuelo, whadya want to learn? Robin demanded politely.


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 I want to do everything that Gunnar can do, she replied without hesitation.

Whew! Some ambish! Hugo cried. It'll take a long time.

I expect it to, Consuelo calmly assured him, the longer the better.

When the primitive first excercises began, Consuelo in the gravest manner devoted her whole soul to the accomplishment of what was demanded of her, while Miss Pinchon studied the execution of the evolutions with an attention which seemed entirely out of proportion to the spectacle offered to her vision.

When do you expect Gunnar back? Consuelo inquired, suspending her fatiguing exercise.

The twins, who had been in the best of spirits, wilted at this question.

You mustn't ask about Gunnar, dearie, Mrs. Hugo patiently explained. We don't know when he'll be back.

If ever, Robin solemnly added.

Consuelo appeared not to have taken this in. Well, she urged, I'm rested now. Let's go back to work.

Day after day the lessons continued, Consuelo throwing all her nervous energy, all her intelligence, into the achievement of professional agility. She proved pliable and exceedingly limber. It was amazing how fast she learned. It was necessary at first, of course, to give her excercises for the


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 strengthening of the muscles, and these she was advised to practise at home. She followed this counsel with so much assiduity that for the time being she entirely neglected her reading. Every morning, accompanied by Miss Pinchon, she visited the brothers for a lesson. The governess, seated on a hard, wooden chair, did not appear to be uncomfortable. A vague idea was gradually becoming concrete in Miss Pinchon's brain.

Consuelo's parents were by no means blind to the physical improvement in the child. Even Laura was now satisfied that some good might come out of this vagary.

If there were only a philosophy behind this, George chucklingly remarked to Campaspe one day, there would be no stopping it. All it needs is a philosophy. . . something about soul hunger being satisfied. . . and then every mother in New York would send her child down there.

I am not altogether certain, Campaspe suggested, that there is not a philosophy behind it.

Well, you know what I mean, the mystified George countered.

Yes, I know what you mean, was Campaspe's cryptic response.

While they were talking in the Everest drawing-room, Miss Pinchon crossed the room, ostensibly in search of a book. There was an expression on her face that no one had ever seen there before. No one, as a matter of fact, observed it now.


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Mrs. Humphry Pollanger—Isabel, her intimate friends called her—occupied an anomalous and at the same time a strategic position in New York society. Without much difficulty she could trace her ancestry back to Anneke Jans Bogardus and, therefore, had she been so inclined, she was entitled to ally herself with the horde of similar descendants who sporadically sued Trinity Church Corporation for recognition of their proprietary rights in the sixty-three acres in lower Manhattan, much more valuable now than they were in the middle of the seventeenth century when Mrs. Bogardus died in what was then known as New Amsterdam. Mrs. Pollanger, however, did not entertain any such inclination. She had plenty of money, plenty of blood; her amiable ambition was for brains. So she joined all the women's clubs she could discover, wrote a paper on. The Relationship of the American Woman to the Young Intellectuals which, published in the Century, automatically admitted her to membership in the Authors' League, furnished her house with early American furniture, and entertained every visiting celebrity who would give her the privilege of doing so. She, therefore,


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 constituted the bridge—practically the only effectual one since Edith Dale's Washington Square salon had been abandoned—between the professional world and what the New York Journal called "exclusive social circles." These two classes never mingle very successfully, although individuals may wander from one to the other without causing consternation. The result was that, after a short time, Mrs. Pollanger was looked upon by the authors as a woman of society, while the smart world regarded her as a club woman. Everybody laughed at her a good deal behind her back, but everybody went to her parties to eat the peerless chaud-froid, created by her French cook, and to consume the apparently inexhaustible supply of Pol Roger. Besides, these parties were amusing, although frequently unintentionally so. For one thing, the guests could count on the presence of Mr. Humphry Pollanger, who was vaguely known to sit behind a desk somewhere near Wall Street, cutting off coupons and signing papers for an hour or two each day. He attended these parties, but never seemed to be quite as much at home as his wife's friends. It frequently happened, indeed, that he was urged by some one who had not been introduced to him to take another glass of wine. He had even been mistaken, on occasion, for Mrs. Pollanger's butler.

When the newspapers announced that Gareth Johns would return to America for the first time in


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 ten years, for the first time, that is, since his fame as a novelist had become international, his works now appearing in the Tauchnitz edition as fast as they were issued and even in Spanish and Swedish translations, it had been a foregone conclusion that Mrs. Pollanger would give some kind of entertainment for him. Her social gatherings assumed various forms; sometimes, as was the case with Hugh Walpole, she invited a few friends to a small informal dinner; sometimes, as was the case with Frank Swinnerton, she gave a large, informal breakfast. She had collected a theatre party to honour Lord Dunsany and she had arranged a ball for Rebecca West. Local celebrities, such as Joseph Hergesheimer, Sinclair Lewis, Carl Van Vechten, and Theodore Dreiser, were often bidden to attend these functions, and occasionally, if seldom, she included one or more of these in her dinner lists, but she had never been able to lure James Branch Cabell from Dumbarton, Virginia, into her house.

The house, as has been reported, was furnished in an early American style, the inappropriateness of which decorative scheme struck Campaspe more vividly than ever before, as she ascended the grand staircase with Jack and Lalla Draycott at eleven o'clock. She cherished her own peculiar ideas on the subject of period furniture, one of which was that people who lived in any epoch must always have retained in their homes chairs and tables and commodes and secretaries from preceding decades. Assuredly, no