and bearing faded out of sight. She flushed over cheeks, brow, and throat. Irving thought it a proof that he had made an impression upon her. Acting upon this mistaken conviction, he crossed the room and stood before her, looking down with ill-disguised admiration into her face. It was but for a moment, and obedient to the announcement of dinner, Dorothy rose, to the relief of that stifling consciousness that he was too near, which had for the moment overwhelmed her.

It was an added proof that Irving Chipman was better bred than his father that he could recognize that frank admiration was as distasteful to Dorothy Harcourt as political wirepulling, and had tact to turn the conversation into other channels. Allowing his glass to be filled with red wine, he said, looking at Dorothy:

"And when, like her, O Saki, you shall pass
Among the guests, star-scattered on the grass,
And in your blissful errand reach the spot
Where I made one-turn down an empty glass."

"Have you read the 'Rubàiyat'? I have been reading it coming down. My profession is hostile to that sort of thing. A man who spends three quarters of his time scenting murders and rascality

does not get much time to study fine arts or read current literature; but I pick up snatches of little things-chiefly poetry-as I go across the State. My study is in drawing-room cars.'

If he had not kept so alert a watch upon his listeners, to study the effect of his remarks, Dorothy would have given herself the indulgence of enjoying what he had to say. She granted that he was clever; but she could not believe him honest. That there was any demand for honesty in these slight and superficial remarks, might well be questioned; but Dorothy found herself comparing them with what Bradley had said with half the suavity on the same subject. She said:

"Yes, I know the 'Rubàiyat.' Omar rails at heaven, and smiles at eternity sardonically through the most perfect verse. But I should suppose you, Mr. Chipman, were too busy a man to grumble at the eternities. Poetic atheism is left to the rich and idle, as a sort of expression of ennui.”

Irving laughed patronizingly, smiling at her through his veiled eyes, with acute appreciation that she had begun to justify her reputation for cleverness.

"As for that, it is very respectable to be religious. I, myself, am a Presbyterian, and make it

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a point to go to church every Sunday. There is a certain prejudice against lawyers which has to be overcome by something of the kind."

Irving looked from one to the other again, with that air of studying the effect of this remark, and Dorothy began to understand this species of moral fencing.

Mr. Harcourt said:

"So you are a Presbyterian, Irving. This generation leans toward Unitarianism or Romanism. There must be some strong motive to keep you a Presbyterian?"

"The Unitarians are in the minority in our district, and the Episcopalians as poor as church-mice are said to be!"

"My daughter is not a church-mouse."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Harcourt. Will you convert me?”

"I do not think it worth while, Mr. Chipman. Your own church evidently suits your ends better than mine would. It is not the sect of the majority in New England."

"Bostonians are Unitarians, Dorothy. How about Bradley?

"Mr. Bradley is a Unitarian, I believe, papa, though he does not talk theology."

"What Bradley do you speak of? Arthur

Bradley — a Harvard man, class of "7?" Chipman asked.

"Yes; that's the fellow-blue blood. Do you know him, Chipman ? "

"He was in my class. I can't say that I know him exactly. He was B, and I C. We sat in the same division, but I did not belong to his society. Those Boston fellows are the most gigantic snobs I ever saw. They will get up and make the most shambling recitation you ever heard; and if another man has command of language enough to speak out clearly before the professors, and give anything like a coherent recitation, they look upon him as a pedagogue, something a little off color socially. Yes; Bradley led the Porcellian. He wore the worst clothes and had the worst manners of any man in the class; but he could blackball any man out of any society in college. He always treated me well enough; but when it came to my entering the Pudding, it was Bradley who blackballed me. So he is here at Tarratine. I should have said this was beyond the pale of his recognition."

Dorothy occupied herself with the arrangement of an opalesque finger-bowl upon a dainty damask square, and her father answered:

"I understand that young Bradley came here to look up some mill privileges which his father has bought up river. The Allens have had to sell out their flowage right, and Bradley was a friend with the ready money; and it is rumored that the son will eventually be established here as superintendent of the mills. I have not met the young man. He is much on the Boston type. I knew it well myself as a young man. They are not all as bad as they seem. Pivoted? Yes; but send them out into the world and they bear the knocks well. They are tough, as the Pilgrim Fathers themselves. Snobs? Yes; but believing that they are the best people in the world only affects them in New England. Beyond that, they are very ready to acknowledge the possibilities of the universe."

"Well, Mr. Harcourt, you are the most charitable man I ever saw. Boston is the most bitter opponent you have in the field."

"I am aware of it. Boston ostracized CharlesSumner, John Andrew, and Henry Wilson. I am no better than they. 'I can expect nothing more from the hands of that little set which thinks itself mankind.' Leave it to its whims. Thirty years from now the old families will canonize Sum