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the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xxxi. archer had been stunned by old catherine'snews. it was only natural that madame olenskashould have hastened from washington in response to her grandmother's summons; butthat she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that mrs. mingott had almost regained her health--wasless easy to explain. archer was sure that madame olenska'sdecision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. he knew the exact figure of the smallincome which her husband had allowed her at

their separation. without the addition of her grandmother'sallowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the mingottvocabulary; and now that medora manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two womenclothed and fed. yet archer was convinced that madameolenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. she had the heedless generosity and thespasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money;but she could go without many things which

her relations considered indispensable, and mrs. lovell mingott and mrs. welland hadoften been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuriesof count olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things weredone." moreover, as archer knew, several monthshad passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made noeffort to regain her grandmother's favour. therefore if she had changed her course itmust be for a different reason. he did not have far to seek for thatreason. on the way from the ferry she had told himthat he and she must remain apart; but she

had said it with her head on his breast. he knew that there was no calculatedcoquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clingingdesperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trustedthem. but during the ten days which had elapsedsince her return to new york she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and fromthe fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was noturning back. at the thought, a sudden fear of her ownweakness might have seized her, and she

might have felt that, after all, it wasbetter to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow the line of leastresistance. an hour earlier, when he had rung mrs.mingott's bell, archer had fancied that his path was clear before him. he had meant to have a word alone withmadame olenska, and failing that, to learn from her grandmother on what day, and bywhich train, she was returning to washington. in that train he intended to join her, andtravel with her to washington, or as much farther as she was willing to go.his own fancy inclined to japan.

at any rate she would understand at oncethat, wherever she went, he was going. he meant to leave a note for may thatshould cut off any other alternative. he had fancied himself not only nerved forthis plunge but eager to take it; yet his first feeling on hearing that the course ofevents was changed had been one of relief. now, however, as he walked home from mrs.mingott's, he was conscious of a growing distaste for what lay before him. there was nothing unknown or unfamiliar inthe path he was presumably to tread; but when he had trodden it before it was as afree man, who was accountable to no one for his actions, and could lend himself with an

amused detachment to the game ofprecautions and prevarications, concealments and compliances, that the partrequired. this procedure was called "protecting awoman's honour"; and the best fiction, combined with the after-dinner talk of hiselders, had long since initiated him into every detail of its code. now he saw the matter in a new light, andhis part in it seemed singularly diminished. it was, in fact, that which, with a secretfatuity, he had watched mrs. thorley rushworth play toward a fond andunperceiving husband: a smiling, bantering,

humouring, watchful and incessant lie. a lie by day, a lie by night, a lie inevery touch and every look; a lie in every caress and every quarrel; a lie in everyword and in every silence. it was easier, and less dastardly on thewhole, for a wife to play such a part toward her husband. a woman's standard of truthfulness wastacitly held to be lower: she was the subject creature, and versed in the arts ofthe enslaved. then she could always plead moods andnerves, and the right not to be held too strictly to account; and even in the moststrait-laced societies the laugh was always

against the husband. but in archer's little world no one laughedat a wife deceived, and a certain measure of contempt was attached to men whocontinued their philandering after marriage. in the rotation of crops there was arecognised season for wild oats; but they were not to be sown more than once.archer had always shared this view: in his heart he thought lefferts despicable. but to love ellen olenska was not to becomea man like lefferts: for the first time archer found himself face to face with thedread argument of the individual case.

ellen olenska was like no other woman, hewas like no other man: their situation, therefore, resembled no one else's, andthey were answerable to no tribunal but that of their own judgment. yes, but in ten minutes more he would bemounting his own doorstep; and there were may, and habit, and honour, and all the olddecencies that he and his people had always believed in... at his corner he hesitated, and then walkedon down fifth avenue. ahead of him, in the winter night, loomed abig unlit house. as he drew near he thought how often he hadseen it blazing with lights, its steps

awninged and carpeted, and carriageswaiting in double line to draw up at the curbstone. it was in the conservatory that stretchedits dead-black bulk down the side street that he had taken his first kiss from may;it was under the myriad candles of the ball-room that he had seen her appear, talland silver-shining as a young diana. now the house was as dark as the grave,except for a faint flare of gas in the basement, and a light in one upstairs roomwhere the blind had not been lowered. as archer reached the corner he saw thatthe carriage standing at the door was mrs. manson mingott's.what an opportunity for sillerton jackson,

if he should chance to pass! archer had been greatly moved by oldcatherine's account of madame olenska's attitude toward mrs. beaufort; it made therighteous reprobation of new york seem like a passing by on the other side. but he knew well enough what constructionthe clubs and drawing-rooms would put on ellen olenska's visits to her cousin.he paused and looked up at the lighted window. no doubt the two women were sittingtogether in that room: beaufort had probably sought consolation elsewhere.

there were even rumours that he had leftnew york with fanny ring; but mrs. beaufort's attitude made the report seemimprobable. archer had the nocturnal perspective offifth avenue almost to himself. at that hour most people were indoors,dressing for dinner; and he was secretly glad that ellen's exit was likely to beunobserved. as the thought passed through his mind thedoor opened, and she came out. behind her was a faint light, such as mighthave been carried down the stairs to show her the way. she turned to say a word to some one; thenthe door closed, and she came down the

steps."ellen," he said in a low voice, as she reached the pavement. she stopped with a slight start, and justthen he saw two young men of fashionable cut approaching. there was a familiar air about theirovercoats and the way their smart silk mufflers were folded over their white ties;and he wondered how youths of their quality happened to be dining out so early. then he remembered that the reggiechiverses, whose house was a few doors above, were taking a large party thatevening to see adelaide neilson in romeo

and juliet, and guessed that the two wereof the number. they passed under a lamp, and he recognisedlawrence lefferts and a young chivers. a mean desire not to have madame olenskaseen at the beauforts' door vanished as he felt the penetrating warmth of her hand. "i shall see you now--we shall betogether," he broke out, hardly knowing what he said."ah," she answered, "granny has told you?" while he watched her he was aware thatlefferts and chivers, on reaching the farther side of the street corner, haddiscreetly struck away across fifth avenue. it was the kind of masculine solidaritythat he himself often practised; now he

sickened at their connivance.did she really imagine that he and she could live like this? and if not, what else did she imagine?"tomorrow i must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice thatsounded almost angry to his own ears. she wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "but i shall be at granny's--for thepresent that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans requiredsome explanation. "somewhere where we can be alone," heinsisted. she gave a faint laugh that grated on him."in new york?

but there are no churches...no monuments." "there's the art museum--in the park," heexplained, as she looked puzzled. "at half-past two.i shall be at the door..." she turned away without answering and gotquickly into the carriage. as it drove off she leaned forward, and hethought she waved her hand in the obscurity. he stared after her in a turmoil ofcontradictory feelings. it seemed to him that he had been speakingnot to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasuresalready wearied of: it was hateful to find

himself the prisoner of this hackneyedvocabulary. "she'll come!" he said to himself, almostcontemptuously. avoiding the popular "wolfe collection,"whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness ofcast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the metropolitan museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "cesnolaantiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. they had this melancholy retreat tothemselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, theywere staring silently at the glass cabinets

mounted in ebonised wood which containedthe recovered fragments of ilium. "it's odd," madame olenska said, "i nevercame here before." "ah, well--. some day, i suppose, it will be a greatmuseum." "yes," she assented absently.she stood up and wandered across the room. archer, remaining seated, watched the lightmovements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly plantedheron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiralon each cheek above the ear. his mind, as always when they first met,was wholly absorbed in the delicious

details that made her herself and no other. presently he rose and approached the casebefore which she stood. its glass shelves were crowded with smallbroken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personaltrifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurredsubstances. "it seems cruel," she said, "that after awhile nothing matters...any more than these little things, that used to be necessaryand important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifyingglass and labelled: 'use unknown.'" "yes; but meanwhile--""ah, meanwhile--"

as she stood there, in her long sealskincoat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like atransparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, itseemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer thestupid law of change. "meanwhile everything matters--thatconcerns you," he said. she looked at him thoughtfully, and turnedback to the divan. he sat down beside her and waited; butsuddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressureof the minutes.

"what is it you wanted to tell me?" sheasked, as if she had received the same warning."what i wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "why, that i believe you came to new yorkbecause you were afraid." "afraid?""of my coming to washington." she looked down at her muff, and he saw herhands stir in it uneasily. "well--?""well--yes," she said. "you were afraid? you knew--?""yes: i knew..." "well, then?" he insisted."well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she

returned with a long questioning sigh. "better--?""we shall hurt others less. isn't it, after all, what you alwayswanted?" "to have you here, you mean--in reach andyet out of reach? to meet you in this way, on the sly?it's the very reverse of what i want. i told you the other day what i wanted." she hesitated."and you still think this--worse?" "a thousand times!"he paused. "it would be easy to lie to you; but thetruth is i think it detestable."

"oh, so do i!" she cried with a deep breathof relief. he sprang up impatiently. "well, then--it's my turn to ask: what isit, in god's name, that you think better?" she hung her head and continued to claspand unclasp her hands in her muff. the step drew nearer, and a guardian in abraided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through anecropolis. they fixed their eyes simultaneously on thecase opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummiesand sarcophagi archer spoke again. "what do you think better?"

instead of answering she murmured: "ipromised granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here i should be safer.""from me?" she bent her head slightly, without lookingat him. "safer from loving me?" her profile did not stir, but he saw a tearoverflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil."safer from doing irreparable harm. don't let us be like all the others!" sheprotested. "what others?i don't profess to be different from my kind.

i'm consumed by the same wants and the samelongings." she glanced at him with a kind of terror,and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "shall i--once come to you; and then gohome?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice.the blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "dearest!" he said, without moving.it seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the leastmotion might overbrim. then her last phrase struck his ear and hisface clouded.

"go home?what do you mean by going home?" "home to my husband." "and you expect me to say yes to that?"she raised her troubled eyes to his. "what else is there?i can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "but that's the very reason why i ask youto come away!" "and destroy their lives, when they'vehelped me to remake mine?" archer sprang to his feet and stood lookingdown on her in inarticulate despair. it would have been easy to say: "yes,come; come once."

he knew the power she would put in hishands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to goback to her husband. but something silenced the word on hislips. a sort of passionate honesty in her made itinconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "if i were to let her come," he said tohimself, "i should have to let her go again."and that was not to be imagined. but he saw the shadow of the lashes on herwet cheek, and wavered. "after all," he began again, "we have livesof our own....

there's no use attempting the impossible. you're so unprejudiced about some things,so used, as you say, to looking at the gorgon, that i don't know why you're afraidto face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is notworth making." she stood up also, her lips tighteningunder a rapid frown. "call it that, then--i must go," she said,drawing her little watch from her bosom. she turned away, and he followed and caughther by the wrist. "well, then: come to me once," he said, hishead turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two theylooked at each other almost like enemies.

"when?" he insisted. "tomorrow?"she hesitated. "the day after.""dearest--!" he said again. she had disengaged her wrist; but for amoment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which hadgrown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner radiance. his heart beat with awe: he felt that hehad never before beheld love visible. "oh, i shall be late--good-bye. no, don't come any farther than this," shecried, walking hurriedly away down the long

room, as if the reflected radiance in hiseyes had frightened her. when she reached the door she turned for amoment to wave a quick farewell. archer walked home alone. darkness was falling when he let himselfinto his house, and he looked about at the familiar objects in the hall as if heviewed them from the other side of the grave. the parlour-maid, hearing his step, ran upthe stairs to light the gas on the upper landing."is mrs. archer in?" "no, sir; mrs. archer went out in thecarriage after luncheon, and hasn't come

back." with a sense of relief he entered thelibrary and flung himself down in his armchair. the parlour-maid followed, bringing thestudent lamp and shaking some coals onto the dying fire. when she left he continued to sitmotionless, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes fixedon the red grate. he sat there without conscious thoughts,without sense of the lapse of time, in a deep and grave amazement that seemed tosuspend life rather than quicken it.

"this was what had to be, then...this waswhat had to be," he kept repeating to himself, as if he hung in the clutch ofdoom. what he had dreamed of had been sodifferent that there was a mortal chill in his rapture.the door opened and may came in. "i'm dreadfully late--you weren't worried,were you?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder with one of her rare caresses.he looked up astonished. "is it late?" "after seven.i believe you've been asleep!" she laughed, and drawing out her hat pinstossed her velvet hat on the sofa.

she looked paler than usual, but sparklingwith an unwonted animation. "i went to see granny, and just as i wasgoing away ellen came in from a walk; so i stayed and had a long talk with her. it was ages since we'd had a real talk...."she had dropped into her usual armchair, facing his, and was running her fingersthrough her rumpled hair. he fancied she expected him to speak. "a really good talk," she went on, smilingwith what seemed to archer an unnatural vividness."she was so dear--just like the old ellen. i'm afraid i haven't been fair to herlately.

i've sometimes thought--"archer stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, out of the radius of the lamp. "yes, you've thought--?" he echoed as shepaused. "well, perhaps i haven't judged her fairly.she's so different--at least on the surface. she takes up such odd people--she seems tolike to make herself conspicuous. i suppose it's the life she's led in thatfast european society; no doubt we seem dreadfully dull to her. but i don't want to judge her unfairly."she paused again, a little breathless with

the unwonted length of her speech, and satwith her lips slightly parted and a deep blush on her cheeks. archer, as he looked at her, was remindedof the glow which had suffused her face in the mission garden at st. augustine. he became aware of the same obscure effortin her, the same reaching out toward something beyond the usual range of hervision. "she hates ellen," he thought, "and she'strying to overcome the feeling, and to get me to help her to overcome it." the thought moved him, and for a moment hewas on the point of breaking the silence

between them, and throwing himself on hermercy. "you understand, don't you," she went on,"why the family have sometimes been annoyed?we all did what we could for her at first; but she never seemed to understand. and now this idea of going to see mrs.beaufort, of going there in granny's carriage!i'm afraid she's quite alienated the van der luydens..." "ah," said archer with an impatient laugh.the open door had closed between them again."it's time to dress; we're dining out,

aren't we?" he asked, moving from the fire. she rose also, but lingered near thehearth. as he walked past her she moved forwardimpulsively, as though to detain him: their eyes met, and he saw that hers were of thesame swimming blue as when he had left her to drive to jersey city. she flung her arms about his neck andpressed her cheek to his. "you haven't kissed me today," she said ina whisper; and he felt her tremble in his arms. >

the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xxxii. "at the court of the tuileries," said mr.sillerton jackson with his reminiscent smile, "such things were pretty openlytolerated." the scene was the van der luydens' blackwalnut dining-room in madison avenue, and the time the evening after newland archer'svisit to the museum of art. mr. and mrs. van der luyden had come totown for a few days from skuytercliff, whither they had precipitately fled at theannouncement of beaufort's failure. it had been represented to them that thedisarray into which society had been thrown by this deplorable affair made theirpresence in town more necessary than ever.

it was one of the occasions when, as mrs.archer put it, they "owed it to society" to show themselves at the opera, and even toopen their own doors. "it will never do, my dear louisa, to letpeople like mrs. lemuel struthers think they can step into regina's shoes.it is just at such times that new people push in and get a footing. it was owing to the epidemic of chicken-poxin new york the winter mrs. struthers first appeared that the married men slipped awayto her house while their wives were in the nursery. you and dear henry, louisa, must stand inthe breach as you always have."

mr. and mrs. van der luyden could notremain deaf to such a call, and reluctantly but heroically they had come to town,unmuffled the house, and sent out invitations for two dinners and an eveningreception. on this particular evening they had invitedsillerton jackson, mrs. archer and newland and his wife to go with them to the opera,where faust was being sung for the first time that winter. nothing was done without ceremony under thevan der luyden roof, and though there were but four guests the repast had begun atseven punctually, so that the proper sequence of courses might be served without

haste before the gentlemen settled down totheir cigars. archer had not seen his wife since theevening before. he had left early for the office, where hehad plunged into an accumulation of unimportant business. in the afternoon one of the senior partnershad made an unexpected call on his time; and he had reached home so late that mayhad preceded him to the van der luydens', and sent back the carriage. now, across the skuytercliff carnations andthe massive plate, she struck him as pale and languid; but her eyes shone, and shetalked with exaggerated animation.

the subject which had called forth mr.sillerton jackson's favourite allusion had been brought up (archer fancied not withoutintention) by their hostess. the beaufort failure, or rather thebeaufort attitude since the failure, was still a fruitful theme for the drawing-roommoralist; and after it had been thoroughly examined and condemned mrs. van der luyden had turned her scrupulous eyes on mayarcher. "is it possible, dear, that what i hear istrue? i was told your grandmother mingott'scarriage was seen standing at mrs. beaufort's door."it was noticeable that she no longer called

the offending lady by her christian name. may's colour rose, and mrs. archer put inhastily: "if it was, i'm convinced it was there without mrs. mingott's knowledge.""ah, you think--?" mrs. van der luyden paused, sighed, andglanced at her husband. "i'm afraid," mr. van der luyden said,"that madame olenska's kind heart may have led her into the imprudence of calling onmrs. beaufort." "or her taste for peculiar people," put inmrs. archer in a dry tone, while her eyes dwelt innocently on her son's. "i'm sorry to think it of madame olenska,"said mrs. van der luyden; and mrs. archer

murmured: "ah, my dear--and after you'd hadher twice at skuytercliff!" it was at this point that mr. jacksonseized the chance to place his favourite allusion. "at the tuileries," he repeated, seeing theeyes of the company expectantly turned on him, "the standard was excessively lax insome respects; and if you'd asked where morny's money came from--! or who paid the debts of some of the courtbeauties..." "i hope, dear sillerton," said mrs. archer,"you are not suggesting that we should adopt such standards?"

"i never suggest," returned mr. jacksonimperturbably. "but madame olenska's foreign bringing-upmay make her less particular--" "ah," the two elder ladies sighed. "still, to have kept her grandmother'scarriage at a defaulter's door!" mr. van der luyden protested; and archerguessed that he was remembering, and resenting, the hampers of carnations he hadsent to the little house in twenty-third street. "of course i've always said that she looksat things quite differently," mrs. archer summed up.a flush rose to may's forehead.

she looked across the table at her husband,and said precipitately: "i'm sure ellen meant it kindly." "imprudent people are often kind," saidmrs. archer, as if the fact were scarcely an extenuation; and mrs. van der luydenmurmured: "if only she had consulted some one--" "ah, that she never did!"mrs. archer rejoined. at this point mr. van der luyden glanced athis wife, who bent her head slightly in the direction of mrs. archer; and theglimmering trains of the three ladies swept out of the door while the gentlemen settleddown to their cigars.

mr. van der luyden supplied short ones onopera nights; but they were so good that they made his guests deplore his inexorablepunctuality. archer, after the first act, had detachedhimself from the party and made his way to the back of the club box. from there he watched, over variouschivers, mingott and rushworth shoulders, the same scene that he had looked at, twoyears previously, on the night of his first meeting with ellen olenska. he had half-expected her to appear again inold mrs. mingott's box, but it remained empty; and he sat motionless, his eyesfastened on it, till suddenly madame

nilsson's pure soprano broke out into"m'ama, non m'ama..." archer turned to the stage, where, in thefamiliar setting of giant roses and pen- wiper pansies, the same large blonde victimwas succumbing to the same small brown seducer. from the stage his eyes wandered to thepoint of the horseshoe where may sat between two older ladies, just as, on thatformer evening, she had sat between mrs. lovell mingott and her newly-arrived"foreign" cousin. as on that evening, she was all in white;and archer, who had not noticed what she wore, recognised the blue-white satin andold lace of her wedding dress.

it was the custom, in old new york, forbrides to appear in this costly garment during the first year or two of marriage:his mother, he knew, kept hers in tissue paper in the hope that janey might some day wear it, though poor janey was reaching theage when pearl grey poplin and no bridesmaids would be thought more"appropriate." it struck archer that may, since theirreturn from europe, had seldom worn her bridal satin, and the surprise of seeingher in it made him compare her appearance with that of the young girl he had watched with such blissful anticipations two yearsearlier.

though may's outline was slightly heavier,as her goddesslike build had foretold, her athletic erectness of carriage, and thegirlish transparency of her expression, remained unchanged: but for the slight languor that archer had lately noticed inher she would have been the exact image of the girl playing with the bouquet oflilies-of-the-valley on her betrothal evening. the fact seemed an additional appeal to hispity: such innocence was as moving as the trustful clasp of a child. then he remembered the passionategenerosity latent under that incurious

calm. he recalled her glance of understandingwhen he had urged that their engagement should be announced at the beaufort ball;he heard the voice in which she had said, in the mission garden: "i couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong--a wrong tosome one else;" and an uncontrollable longing seized him to tell her the truth,to throw himself on her generosity, and ask for the freedom he had once refused. newland archer was a quiet and self-controlled young man. conformity to the discipline of a smallsociety had become almost his second

nature. it was deeply distasteful to him to doanything melodramatic and conspicuous, anything mr. van der luyden would havedeprecated and the club box condemned as bad form. but he had become suddenly unconscious ofthe club box, of mr. van der luyden, of all that had so long enclosed him in the warmshelter of habit. he walked along the semi-circular passageat the back of the house, and opened the door of mrs. van der luyden's box as if ithad been a gate into the unknown. "m'ama!" thrilled out the triumphantmarguerite; and the occupants of the box

looked up in surprise at archer's entrance. he had already broken one of the rules ofhis world, which forbade the entering of a box during a solo.slipping between mr. van der luyden and sillerton jackson, he leaned over his wife. "i've got a beastly headache; don't tellany one, but come home, won't you?" he whispered. may gave him a glance of comprehension, andhe saw her whisper to his mother, who nodded sympathetically; then she murmuredan excuse to mrs. van der luyden, and rose from her seat just as marguerite fell intofaust's arms.

archer, while he helped her on with heropera cloak, noticed the exchange of a significant smile between the older ladies. as they drove away may laid her hand shylyon his. "i'm so sorry you don't feel well.i'm afraid they've been overworking you again at the office." "no--it's not that: do you mind if i openthe window?" he returned confusedly, letting down the pane on his side. he sat staring out into the street, feelinghis wife beside him as a silent watchful interrogation, and keeping his eyessteadily fixed on the passing houses.

at their door she caught her skirt in thestep of the carriage, and fell against him. "did you hurt yourself?" he asked,steadying her with his arm. "no; but my poor dress--see how i've tornit!" she exclaimed. she bent to gather up a mud-stainedbreadth, and followed him up the steps into the hall. the servants had not expected them soearly, and there was only a glimmer of gas on the upper landing. archer mounted the stairs, turned up thelight, and put a match to the brackets on each side of the library mantelpiece.

the curtains were drawn, and the warmfriendly aspect of the room smote him like that of a familiar face met during anunavowable errand. he noticed that his wife was very pale, andasked if he should get her some brandy. "oh, no," she exclaimed with a momentaryflush, as she took off her cloak. "but hadn't you better go to bed at once?"she added, as he opened a silver box on the table and took out a cigarette.archer threw down the cigarette and walked to his usual place by the fire. "no; my head is not as bad as that."he paused. "and there's something i want to say;something important--that i must tell you

at once." she had dropped into an armchair, andraised her head as he spoke. "yes, dear?" she rejoined, so gently thathe wondered at the lack of wonder with which she received this preamble. "may--" he began, standing a few feet fromher chair, and looking over at her as if the slight distance between them were anunbridgeable abyss. the sound of his voice echoed uncannilythrough the homelike hush, and he repeated: "there is something i've got to tellyou...about myself..." she sat silent, without a movement or atremor of her lashes.

she was still extremely pale, but her facehad a curious tranquillity of expression that seemed drawn from some secret innersource. archer checked the conventional phrases ofself-accusal that were crowding to his lips.he was determined to put the case baldly, without vain recrimination or excuse. "madame olenska--" he said; but at the namehis wife raised her hand as if to silence him.as she did so the gaslight struck on the gold of her wedding-ring. "oh, why should we talk about ellentonight?" she asked, with a slight pout of

impatience."because i ought to have spoken before." her face remained calm. "is it really worth while, dear?i know i've been unfair to her at times-- perhaps we all have. you've understood her, no doubt, betterthan we did: you've always been kind to her.but what does it matter, now it's all over?" archer looked at her blankly.could it be possible that the sense of unreality in which he felt himselfimprisoned had communicated itself to his

wife? "all over--what do you mean?" he asked inan indistinct stammer. may still looked at him with transparenteyes. "why--since she's going back to europe sosoon; since granny approves and understands, and has arranged to make herindependent of her husband--" she broke off, and archer, grasping thecorner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and steadying himself against it,made a vain effort to extend the same control to his reeling thoughts. "i supposed," he heard his wife's evenvoice go on, "that you had been kept at the

office this evening about the businessarrangements. it was settled this morning, i believe." she lowered her eyes under his unseeingstare, and another fugitive flush passed over her face. he understood that his own eyes must beunbearable, and turning away, rested his elbows on the mantel-shelf and covered hisface. something drummed and clanged furiously inhis ears; he could not tell if it were the blood in his veins, or the tick of theclock on the mantel. may sat without moving or speaking whilethe clock slowly measured out five minutes.

a lump of coal fell forward in the grate,and hearing her rise to push it back, archer at length turned and faced her. "it's impossible," he exclaimed."impossible--?" "how do you know--what you've just toldme?" "i saw ellen yesterday--i told you i'd seenher at granny's." "it wasn't then that she told you?""no; i had a note from her this afternoon.- -do you want to see it?" he could not find his voice, and she wentout of the room, and came back almost immediately."i thought you knew," she said simply.

she laid a sheet of paper on the table, andarcher put out his hand and took it up. the letter contained only a few lines. "may dear, i have at last made grannyunderstand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kindand generous as ever. she sees now that if i return to europe imust live by myself, or rather with poor aunt medora, who is coming with me.i am hurrying back to washington to pack up, and we sail next week. you must be very good to granny when i'mgone--as good as you've always been to me. ellen.

"if any of my friends wish to urge me tochange my mind, please tell them it would be utterly useless." archer read the letter over two or threetimes; then he flung it down and burst out laughing.the sound of his laugh startled him. it recalled janey's midnight fright whenshe had caught him rocking with incomprehensible mirth over may's telegramannouncing that the date of their marriage had been advanced. "why did she write this?" he asked,checking his laugh with a supreme effort. may met the question with her unshakencandour.

"i suppose because we talked things overyesterday--" "what things?" "i told her i was afraid i hadn't been fairto her--hadn't always understood how hard it must have been for her here, alone amongso many people who were relations and yet strangers; who felt the right to criticise, and yet didn't always know thecircumstances." she paused. "i knew you'd been the one friend she couldalways count on; and i wanted her to know that you and i were the same--in all ourfeelings."

she hesitated, as if waiting for him tospeak, and then added slowly: "she understood my wishing to tell her this.i think she understands everything." she went up to archer, and taking one ofhis cold hands pressed it quickly against her cheek. "my head aches too; good-night, dear," shesaid, and turned to the door, her torn and muddy wedding-dress dragging after heracross the room. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xxxiii. it was, as mrs. archer smilingly said tomrs. welland, a great event for a young couple to give their first big dinner.

the newland archers, since they had set uptheir household, had received a good deal of company in an informal way. archer was fond of having three or fourfriends to dine, and may welcomed them with the beaming readiness of which her motherhad set her the example in conjugal affairs. her husband questioned whether, if left toherself, she would ever have asked any one to the house; but he had long given uptrying to disengage her real self from the shape into which tradition and training hadmoulded her. it was expected that well-off young couplesin new york should do a good deal of

informal entertaining, and a wellandmarried to an archer was doubly pledged to the tradition. but a big dinner, with a hired chef and twoborrowed footmen, with roman punch, roses from henderson's, and menus on gilt-edgedcards, was a different affair, and not to be lightly undertaken. as mrs. archer remarked, the roman punchmade all the difference; not in itself but by its manifold implications--since itsignified either canvas-backs or terrapin, two soups, a hot and a cold sweet, full decolletage with short sleeves, and guestsof a proportionate importance.

it was always an interesting occasion whena young pair launched their first invitations in the third person, and theirsummons was seldom refused even by the seasoned and sought-after. still, it was admittedly a triumph that thevan der luydens, at may's request, should have stayed over in order to be present ather farewell dinner for the countess olenska. the two mothers-in-law sat in may'sdrawing-room on the afternoon of the great day, mrs. archer writing out the menus ontiffany's thickest gilt-edged bristol, while mrs. welland superintended theplacing of the palms and standard lamps.

archer, arriving late from his office,found them still there. mrs. archer had turned her attention to thename-cards for the table, and mrs. welland was considering the effect of bringingforward the large gilt sofa, so that another "corner" might be created betweenthe piano and the window. may, they told him, was in the dining-roominspecting the mound of jacqueminot roses and maidenhair in the centre of the longtable, and the placing of the maillard bonbons in openwork silver baskets betweenthe candelabra. on the piano stood a large basket oforchids which mr. van der luyden had had sent from skuytercliff.

everything was, in short, as it should beon the approach of so considerable an event. mrs. archer ran thoughtfully over the list,checking off each name with her sharp gold pen. "henry van der luyden--louisa--the lovellmingotts--the reggie chiverses--lawrence lefferts and gertrude--(yes, i suppose maywas right to have them)--the selfridge merrys, sillerton jackson, van newland andhis wife. (how time passes! it seems only yesterday that he was yourbest man, newland)--and countess olenska--

yes, i think that's all...."mrs. welland surveyed her son-in-law affectionately. "no one can say, newland, that you and mayare not giving ellen a handsome send-off." "ah, well," said mrs. archer, "i understandmay's wanting her cousin to tell people abroad that we're not quite barbarians." "i'm sure ellen will appreciate it.she was to arrive this morning, i believe. it will make a most charming lastimpression. the evening before sailing is usually sodreary," mrs. welland cheerfully continued. archer turned toward the door, and hismother-in-law called to him: "do go in and

have a peep at the table. and don't let may tire herself too much."but he affected not to hear, and sprang up the stairs to his library. the room looked at him like an aliencountenance composed into a polite grimace; and he perceived that it had beenruthlessly "tidied," and prepared, by a judicious distribution of ash-trays and cedar-wood boxes, for the gentlemen tosmoke in. "ah, well," he thought, "it's not for long--" and he went on to his dressing-room. ten days had passed since madame olenska'sdeparture from new york.

during those ten days archer had had nosign from her but that conveyed by the return of a key wrapped in tissue paper,and sent to his office in a sealed envelope addressed in her hand. this retort to his last appeal might havebeen interpreted as a classic move in a familiar game; but the young man chose togive it a different meaning. she was still fighting against her fate;but she was going to europe, and she was not returning to her husband. nothing, therefore, was to prevent hisfollowing her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to herthat it was irrevocable, he believed she

would not send him away. this confidence in the future had steadiedhim to play his part in the present. it had kept him from writing to her, orbetraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. it seemed to him that in the deadly silentgame between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. there had been, nevertheless, momentssufficiently difficult to pass; as when mr. letterblair, the day after madame olenska'sdeparture, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which mrs. manson

mingott wished to create for hergranddaughter. for a couple of hours archer had examinedthe terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he hadbeen consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference wouldreveal it. "well, the lady can't deny that it's ahandsome arrangement," mr. letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary ofthe settlement. "in fact i'm bound to say she's beentreated pretty handsomely all round." "all round?"archer echoed with a touch of derision.

"do you refer to her husband's proposal togive her back her own money?" mr. letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up afraction of an inch. "my dear sir, the law's the law; and yourwife's cousin was married under the french law.it's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "even if she did, what happenedsubsequently--." but archer paused. mr. letterblair had laid his pen-handleagainst his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumedby virtuous elderly gentlemen when they

wish their youngers to understand thatvirtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "my dear sir, i've no wish to extenuate thecount's transgressions; but--but on the other side... i wouldn't put my hand in the fire...well,that there hadn't been tit for tat...with the young champion...."mr. letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward archer. "this report, the result of discreetenquiries..." and then, as archer made no effort toglance at the paper or to repudiate the suggestion, the lawyer somewhat flatlycontinued: "i don't say it's conclusive,

you observe; far from it. but straws show...and on the whole it'seminently satisfactory for all parties that this dignified solution has been reached.""oh, eminently," archer assented, pushing back the paper. a day or two later, on responding to asummons from mrs. manson mingott, his soul had been more deeply tried.he had found the old lady depressed and querulous. "you know she's deserted me?" she began atonce; and without waiting for his reply: "oh, don't ask me why!she gave so many reasons that i've

forgotten them all. my private belief is that she couldn't facethe boredom. at any rate that's what augusta and mydaughters-in-law think. and i don't know that i altogether blameher. olenski's a finished scoundrel; but lifewith him must have been a good deal gayer than it is in fifth avenue. not that the family would admit that: theythink fifth avenue is heaven with the rue de la paix thrown in.and poor ellen, of course, has no idea of going back to her husband.

she held out as firmly as ever againstthat. so she's to settle down in paris with thatfool medora.... well, paris is paris; and you can keep acarriage there on next to nothing. but she was as gay as a bird, and i shallmiss her." two tears, the parched tears of the old,rolled down her puffy cheeks and vanished in the abysses of her bosom."all i ask is," she concluded, "that they shouldn't bother me any more. i must really be allowed to digest mygruel...." and she twinkled a little wistfully atarcher.

it was that evening, on his return home,that may announced her intention of giving a farewell dinner to her cousin. madame olenska's name had not beenpronounced between them since the night of her flight to washington; and archer lookedat his wife with surprise. "a dinner--why?" he interrogated. her colour rose."but you like ellen--i thought you'd be pleased.""it's awfully nice--your putting it in that way. but i really don't see--""i mean to do it, newland," she said,

quietly rising and going to her desk."here are the invitations all written. mother helped me--she agrees that we oughtto." she paused, embarrassed and yet smiling,and archer suddenly saw before him the embodied image of the family. "oh, all right," he said, staring withunseeing eyes at the list of guests that she had put in his hand. when he entered the drawing-room beforedinner may was stooping over the fire and trying to coax the logs to burn in theirunaccustomed setting of immaculate tiles. the tall lamps were all lit, and mr. vander luyden's orchids had been conspicuously

disposed in various receptacles of modernporcelain and knobby silver. mrs. newland archer's drawing-room wasgenerally thought a great success. a gilt bamboo jardiniere, in which theprimulas and cinerarias were punctually renewed, blocked the access to the baywindow (where the old-fashioned would have preferred a bronze reduction of the venus of milo); the sofas and arm-chairs of palebrocade were cleverly grouped about little plush tables densely covered with silvertoys, porcelain animals and efflorescent photograph frames; and tall rosy-shaded lamps shot up like tropical flowers amongthe palms.

"i don't think ellen has ever seen thisroom lighted up," said may, rising flushed from her struggle, and sending about her aglance of pardonable pride. the brass tongs which she had proppedagainst the side of the chimney fell with a crash that drowned her husband's answer;and before he could restore them mr. and mrs. van der luyden were announced. the other guests quickly followed, for itwas known that the van der luydens liked to dine punctually. the room was nearly full, and archer wasengaged in showing to mrs. selfridge merry a small highly-varnished verbeckhoven"study of sheep," which mr. welland had

given may for christmas, when he foundmadame olenska at his side. she was excessively pale, and her pallormade her dark hair seem denser and heavier than ever. perhaps that, or the fact that she hadwound several rows of amber beads about her neck, reminded him suddenly of the littleellen mingott he had danced with at children's parties, when medora manson hadfirst brought her to new york. the amber beads were trying to hercomplexion, or her dress was perhaps unbecoming: her face looked lustreless andalmost ugly, and he had never loved it as he did at that minute.

their hands met, and he thought he heardher say: "yes, we're sailing tomorrow in the russia--"; then there was an unmeaningnoise of opening doors, and after an interval may's voice: "newland! dinner's been announced.won't you please take ellen in?" madame olenska put her hand on his arm, andhe noticed that the hand was ungloved, and remembered how he had kept his eyes fixedon it the evening that he had sat with her in the little twenty-third street drawing-room. all the beauty that had forsaken her faceseemed to have taken refuge in the long pale fingers and faintly dimpled knuckleson his sleeve, and he said to himself: "if

it were only to see her hand again ishould have to follow her--." it was only at an entertainment ostensiblyoffered to a "foreign visitor" that mrs. van der luyden could suffer the diminutionof being placed on her host's left. the fact of madame olenska's "foreignness"could hardly have been more adroitly emphasised than by this farewell tribute;and mrs. van der luyden accepted her displacement with an affability which leftno doubt as to her approval. there were certain things that had to bedone, and if done at all, done handsomely and thoroughly; and one of these, in theold new york code, was the tribal rally around a kinswoman about to be eliminatedfrom the tribe.

there was nothing on earth that thewellands and mingotts would not have done to proclaim their unalterable affection forthe countess olenska now that her passage for europe was engaged; and archer, at the head of his table, sat marvelling at thesilent untiring activity with which her popularity had been retrieved, grievancesagainst her silenced, her past countenanced, and her present irradiated bythe family approval. mrs. van der luyden shone on her with thedim benevolence which was her nearest approach to cordiality, and mr. van derluyden, from his seat at may's right, cast down the table glances plainly intended to

justify all the carnations he had sent fromskuytercliff. archer, who seemed to be assisting at thescene in a state of odd imponderability, as if he floated somewhere between chandelierand ceiling, wondered at nothing so much as his own share in the proceedings. as his glance travelled from one placidwell-fed face to another he saw all the harmless-looking people engaged upon may'scanvas-backs as a band of dumb conspirators, and himself and the pale woman on his right as the centre of theirconspiracy. and then it came over him, in a vast flashmade up of many broken gleams, that to all

of them he and madame olenska were lovers,lovers in the extreme sense peculiar to "foreign" vocabularies. he guessed himself to have been, formonths, the centre of countless silently observing eyes and patiently listeningears; he understood that, by means as yet unknown to him, the separation between himself and the partner of his guilt hadbeen achieved, and that now the whole tribe had rallied about his wife on the tacitassumption that nobody knew anything, or had ever imagined anything, and that the occasion of the entertainment was simplymay archer's natural desire to take an

affectionate leave of her friend andcousin. it was the old new york way of taking life"without effusion of blood": the way of people who dreaded scandal more thandisease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than "scenes," except thebehaviour of those who gave rise to them. as these thoughts succeeded each other inhis mind archer felt like a prisoner in the centre of an armed camp. he looked about the table, and guessed atthe inexorableness of his captors from the tone in which, over the asparagus fromflorida, they were dealing with beaufort

and his wife. "it's to show me," he thought, "what wouldhappen to me--" and a deathly sense of the superiority of implication and analogy overdirect action, and of silence over rash words, closed in on him like the doors ofthe family vault. he laughed, and met mrs. van der luyden'sstartled eyes. "you think it laughable?" she said with apinched smile. "of course poor regina's idea of remainingin new york has its ridiculous side, i suppose;" and archer muttered: "ofcourse." at this point, he became conscious thatmadame olenska's other neighbour had been

engaged for some time with the lady on hisright. at the same moment he saw that may,serenely enthroned between mr. van der luyden and mr. selfridge merry, had cast aquick glance down the table. it was evident that the host and the ladyon his right could not sit through the whole meal in silence.he turned to madame olenska, and her pale smile met him. "oh, do let's see it through," it seemed tosay. "did you find the journey tiring?" he askedin a voice that surprised him by its naturalness; and she answered that, on thecontrary, she had seldom travelled with

fewer discomforts. "except, you know, the dreadful heat in thetrain," she added; and he remarked that she would not suffer from that particularhardship in the country she was going to. "i never," he declared with intensity, "wasmore nearly frozen than once, in april, in the train between calais and paris." she said she did not wonder, but remarkedthat, after all, one could always carry an extra rug, and that every form of travelhad its hardships; to which he abruptly returned that he thought them all of no account compared with the blessedness ofgetting away.

she changed colour, and he added, his voicesuddenly rising in pitch: "i mean to do a lot of travelling myself before long." a tremor crossed her face, and leaning overto reggie chivers, he cried out: "i say, reggie, what do you say to a trip round theworld: now, next month, i mean? i'm game if you are--" at which mrs. reggiepiped up that she could not think of letting reggie go till after the marthawashington ball she was getting up for the blind asylum in easter week; and her husband placidly observed that by that timehe would have to be practising for the international polo match.

but mr. selfridge merry had caught thephrase "round the world," and having once circled the globe in his steam-yacht, heseized the opportunity to send down the table several striking items concerning theshallowness of the mediterranean ports. though, after all, he added, it didn'tmatter; for when you'd seen athens and smyrna and constantinople, what else wasthere? and mrs. merry said she could never be toograteful to dr. bencomb for having made them promise not to go to naples on accountof the fever. "but you must have three weeks to do indiaproperly," her husband conceded, anxious to have it understood that he was no frivolousglobe-trotter.

and at this point the ladies went up to thedrawing-room. in the library, in spite of weightierpresences, lawrence lefferts predominated. the talk, as usual, had veered around tothe beauforts, and even mr. van der luyden and mr. selfridge merry, installed in thehonorary arm-chairs tacitly reserved for them, paused to listen to the younger man'sphilippic. never had lefferts so abounded in thesentiments that adorn christian manhood and exalt the sanctity of the home. indignation lent him a scathing eloquence,and it was clear that if others had followed his example, and acted as hetalked, society would never have been weak

enough to receive a foreign upstart like beaufort--no, sir, not even if he'd marrieda van der luyden or a lanning instead of a dallas. and what chance would there have been,lefferts wrathfully questioned, of his marrying into such a family as thedallases, if he had not already wormed his way into certain houses, as people like mrs. lemuel struthers had managed to wormtheirs in his wake? if society chose to open its doors tovulgar women the harm was not great, though the gain was doubtful; but once it got inthe way of tolerating men of obscure origin

and tainted wealth the end was totaldisintegration--and at no distant date. "if things go on at this pace," leffertsthundered, looking like a young prophet dressed by poole, and who had not yet beenstoned, "we shall see our children fighting for invitations to swindlers' houses, andmarrying beaufort's bastards." "oh, i say--draw it mild!" reggie chivers and young newland protested,while mr. selfridge merry looked genuinely alarmed, and an expression of pain anddisgust settled on mr. van der luyden's sensitive face. "has he got any?" cried mr. sillertonjackson, pricking up his ears; and while

lefferts tried to turn the question with alaugh, the old gentleman twittered into archer's ear: "queer, those fellows whoare always wanting to set things right. the people who have the worst cooks arealways telling you they're poisoned when they dine out. but i hear there are pressing reasons forour friend lawrence's diatribe:--typewriter this time, i understand...." the talk swept past archer like somesenseless river running and running because it did not know enough to stop.he saw, on the faces about him, expressions of interest, amusement and even mirth.

he listened to the younger men's laughter,and to the praise of the archer madeira, which mr. van der luyden and mr. merry werethoughtfully celebrating. through it all he was dimly aware of ageneral attitude of friendliness toward himself, as if the guard of the prisoner hefelt himself to be were trying to soften his captivity; and the perception increasedhis passionate determination to be free. in the drawing-room, where they presentlyjoined the ladies, he met may's triumphant eyes, and read in them the conviction thateverything had "gone off" beautifully. she rose from madame olenska's side, andimmediately mrs. van der luyden beckoned the latter to a seat on the gilt sofa whereshe throned.

mrs. selfridge merry bore across the roomto join them, and it became clear to archer that here also a conspiracy ofrehabilitation and obliteration was going on. the silent organisation which held hislittle world together was determined to put itself on record as never for a momenthaving questioned the propriety of madame olenska's conduct, or the completeness ofarcher's domestic felicity. all these amiable and inexorable personswere resolutely engaged in pretending to each other that they had never heard of,suspected, or even conceived possible, the least hint to the contrary; and from this

tissue of elaborate mutual dissimulationarcher once more disengaged the fact that new york believed him to be madameolenska's lover. he caught the glitter of victory in hiswife's eyes, and for the first time understood that she shared the belief. the discovery roused a laughter of innerdevils that reverberated through all his efforts to discuss the martha washingtonball with mrs. reggie chivers and little mrs. newland; and so the evening swept on, running and running like a senseless riverthat did not know how to stop. at length he saw that madame olenska hadrisen and was saying good-bye.

he understood that in a moment she would begone, and tried to remember what he had said to her at dinner; but he could notrecall a single word they had exchanged. she went up to may, the rest of the companymaking a circle about her as she advanced. the two young women clasped hands; then maybent forward and kissed her cousin. "certainly our hostess is much thehandsomer of the two," archer heard reggie chivers say in an undertone to young mrs.newland; and he remembered beaufort's coarse sneer at may's ineffectual beauty. a moment later he was in the hall, puttingmadame olenska's cloak about her shoulders. through all his confusion of mind he hadheld fast to the resolve to say nothing

that might startle or disturb her. convinced that no power could now turn himfrom his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. but as he followed madame olenska into thehall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at thedoor of her carriage. "is your carriage here?" he asked; and atthat moment mrs. van der luyden, who was being majestically inserted into hersables, said gently: "we are driving dear ellen home." archer's heart gave a jerk, and madameolenska, clasping her cloak and fan with

one hand, held out the other to him."good-bye," she said. "good-bye--but i shall see you soon inparis," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it."oh," she murmured, "if you and may could come--!" mr. van der luyden advanced to give her hisarm, and archer turned to mrs. van der luyden. for a moment, in the billowy darknessinside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--andshe was gone. as he went up the steps he crossed lawrencelefferts coming down with his wife.

lefferts caught his host by the sleeve,drawing back to let gertrude pass. "i say, old chap: do you mind just lettingit be understood that i'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night?thanks so much, you old brick! good-night." "it did go off beautifully, didn't it?"may questioned from the threshold of the library.archer roused himself with a start. as soon as the last carriage had drivenaway, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that hiswife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room.

but there she stood, pale and drawn, yetradiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue."may i come and talk it over?" she asked. "of course, if you like. but you must be awfully sleepy--""no, i'm not sleepy. i should like to sit with you a little.""very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. she sat down and he resumed his seat; butneither spoke for a long time. at length archer began abruptly: "sinceyou're not tired, and want to talk, there's something i must tell you.

i tried to the other night--."she looked at him quickly. "yes, dear.something about yourself?" "about myself. you say you're not tired: well, i am.horribly tired..." in an instant she was all tender anxiety."oh, i've seen it coming on, newland! you've been so wickedly overworked--" "perhaps it's that.anyhow, i want to make a break--" "a break?to give up the law?" "to go away, at any rate--at once.

on a long trip, ever so far off--away fromeverything--" he paused, conscious that he had failed inhis attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yettoo weary to welcome it. do what he would, the chord of eagernessvibrated. "away from everything--" he repeated."ever so far? where, for instance?" she asked. "oh, i don't know.india--or japan." she stood up, and as he sat with bent head,his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him.

"as far as that?but i'm afraid you can't, dear..." she said in an unsteady voice."not unless you'll take me with you." and then, as he was silent, she went on, intones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a littlehammer on his brain: "that is, if the doctors will let me go...but i'm afraidthey won't. for you see, newland, i've been sure sincethis morning of something i've been so longing and hoping for--" he looked up at her with a sick stare, andshe sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee."oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him

while his cold hand stroked her hair. there was a long pause, which the innerdevils filled with strident laughter; then may freed herself from his arms and stoodup. "you didn't guess--?" "yes--i; no.that is, of course i hoped--" they looked at each other for an instantand again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "haveyou told any one else?" "only mamma and your mother." she paused, and then added hurriedly, theblood flushing up to her forehead: "that

is--and ellen.you know i told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "ah--" said archer, his heart stopping.he felt that his wife was watching him intently."did you mind my telling her first, newland?" "mind?why should i?" he made a last effort to collect himself."but that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? i thought you said you weren't sure tilltoday." her colour burned deeper, but she held hisgaze.

"no; i wasn't sure then--but i told her iwas. and you see i was right!" she exclaimed,her blue eyes wet with victory. the age of innocence by edith whartonchapter xxxiv. newland archer sat at the writing-table inhis library in east thirty-ninth street. he had just got back from a big officialreception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the metropolitan museum, andthe spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through aseries of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rustedspring of memory.

"why, this used to be one of the oldcesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished,and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved awaydown the meagrely-fitted vista of the old museum. the vision had roused a host of otherassociations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirtyyears, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the familyconfabulations. it was the room in which most of the realthings of his life had happened.

there his wife, nearly twenty-six yearsago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused theyoung women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, dallas, toodelicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their oldfriend the bishop of new york, the ample magnificent irreplaceable bishop, so longthe pride and ornament of his diocese. there dallas had first staggered across thefloor shouting "dad," while may and the nurse laughed behind the door; there theirsecond child, mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to

the dullest and most reliable of reggiechivers's many sons; and there archer had kissed her through her wedding veil beforethey went down to the motor which was to carry them to grace church--for in a world where all else had reeled on itsfoundations the "grace church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. it was in the library that he and may hadalways discussed the future of the children: the studies of dallas and hisyoung brother bill, mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and thevague leanings toward "art" which had

finally landed the restless and curiousdallas in the office of a rising new york architect. the young men nowadays were emancipatingthemselves from the law and business and taking up all sorts of new things. if they were not absorbed in state politicsor municipal reform, the chances were that they were going in for central americanarchaeology, for architecture or landscape- engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in the prerevolutionary buildingsof their own country, studying and adapting georgian types, and protesting at themeaningless use of the word "colonial."

nobody nowadays had "colonial" housesexcept the millionaire grocers of the suburbs. but above all--sometimes archer put itabove all--it was in that library that the governor of new york, coming down fromalbany one evening to dine and spend the night, had turned to his host, and said, banging his clenched fist on the table andgnashing his eye-glasses: "hang the professional politician!you're the kind of man the country wants, archer. if the stable's ever to be cleaned out, menlike you have got to lend a hand in the

cleaning.""men like you--" how archer had glowed at the phrase! how eagerly he had risen up at the call! it was an echo of ned winsett's old appealto roll his sleeves up and get down into the muck; but spoken by a man who set theexample of the gesture, and whose summons to follow him was irresistible. archer, as he looked back, was not surethat men like himself were what his country needed, at least in the active service towhich theodore roosevelt had pointed; in fact, there was reason to think it did not,

for after a year in the state assembly hehad not been re-elected, and had dropped back thankfully into obscure if usefulmunicipal work, and from that again to the writing of occasional articles in one of the reforming weeklies that were trying toshake the country out of its apathy. it was little enough to look back on; butwhen he remembered to what the young men of his generation and his set had lookedforward--the narrow groove of money-making, sport and society to which their vision had been limited--even his small contributionto the new state of things seemed to count, as each brick counts in a well-built wall.

he had done little in public life; he wouldalways be by nature a contemplative and a dilettante; but he had had high things tocontemplate, great things to delight in; and one great man's friendship to be hisstrength and pride. he had been, in short, what people werebeginning to call "a good citizen." in new york, for many years past, every newmovement, philanthropic, municipal or artistic, had taken account of his opinionand wanted his name. people said: "ask archer" when there was aquestion of starting the first school for crippled children, reorganising the museumof art, founding the grolier club, inaugurating the new library, or getting upa new society of chamber music.

his days were full, and they were filleddecently. he supposed it was all a man ought to ask. something he knew he had missed: the flowerof life. but he thought of it now as a thing sounattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairingbecause one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery. there were a hundred million tickets in hislottery, and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedly against him. when he thought of ellen olenska it wasabstractly, serenely, as one might think of

some imaginary beloved in a book or apicture: she had become the composite vision of all that he had missed. that vision, faint and tenuous as it was,had kept him from thinking of other women. he had been what was called a faithfulhusband; and when may had suddenly died-- carried off by the infectious pneumoniathrough which she had nursed their youngest child--he had honestly mourned her. their long years together had shown himthat it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept thedignity of a duty: lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites.

looking about him, he honoured his ownpast, and mourned for it. after all, there was good in the old ways. his eyes, making the round of the room--done over by dallas with english mezzotints, chippendale cabinets, bits ofchosen blue-and-white and pleasantly shaded electric lamps--came back to the old eastlake writing-table that he had neverbeen willing to banish, and to his first photograph of may, which still kept itsplace beside his inkstand. there she was, tall, round-bosomed andwillowy, in her starched muslin and flapping leghorn, as he had seen her underthe orange-trees in the mission garden.

and as he had seen her that day, so she hadremained; never quite at the same height, yet never far below it: generous, faithful,unwearied; but so lacking in imagination, so incapable of growth, that the world of her youth had fallen into pieces andrebuilt itself without her ever being conscious of the change.this hard bright blindness had kept her immediate horizon apparently unaltered. her incapacity to recognise change made herchildren conceal their views from her as archer concealed his; there had been, fromthe first, a joint pretence of sameness, a kind of innocent family hypocrisy, in which

father and children had unconsciouslycollaborated. and she had died thinking the world a goodplace, full of loving and harmonious households like her own, and resigned toleave it because she was convinced that, whatever happened, newland would continue to inculcate in dallas the same principlesand prejudices which had shaped his parents' lives, and that dallas in turn(when newland followed her) would transmit the sacred trust to little bill. and of mary she was sure as of her ownself. so, having snatched little bill from thegrave, and given her life in the effort,

she went contentedly to her place in thearcher vault in st. mark's, where mrs. archer already lay safe from the terrifying "trend" which her daughter-in-law had nevereven become aware of. opposite may's portrait stood one of herdaughter. mary chivers was as tall and fair as hermother, but large-waisted, flat-chested and slightly slouching, as the altered fashionrequired. mary chivers's mighty feats of athleticismcould not have been performed with the twenty-inch waist that may archer's azuresash so easily spanned. and the difference seemed symbolic; themother's life had been as closely girt as

her figure. mary, who was no less conventional, and nomore intelligent, yet led a larger life and held more tolerant views.there was good in the new order too. the telephone clicked, and archer, turningfrom the photographs, unhooked the transmitter at his elbow. how far they were from the days when thelegs of the brass-buttoned messenger boy had been new york's only means of quickcommunication! "chicago wants you." ah--it must be a long-distance from dallas,who had been sent to chicago by his firm to

talk over the plan of the lakeside palacethey were to build for a young millionaire with ideas. the firm always sent dallas on sucherrands. "hallo, dad--yes: dallas.i say--how do you feel about sailing on wednesday? mauretania: yes, next wednesday as ever is.our client wants me to look at some italian gardens before we settle anything, and hasasked me to nip over on the next boat. i've got to be back on the first of june--"the voice broke into a joyful conscious laugh--"so we must look alive.i say, dad, i want your help: do come."

dallas seemed to be speaking in the room:the voice was as near by and natural as if he had been lounging in his favourite arm-chair by the fire. the fact would not ordinarily havesurprised archer, for long-distance telephoning had become as much a matter ofcourse as electric lighting and five-day atlantic voyages. but the laugh did startle him; it stillseemed wonderful that across all those miles and miles of country--forest, river,mountain, prairie, roaring cities and busy indifferent millions--dallas's laugh should be able to say: "of course, whateverhappens, i must get back on the first,

because fanny beaufort and i are to bemarried on the fifth." the voice began again: "think it over? no, sir: not a minute.you've got to say yes now. why not, i'd like to know?if you can allege a single reason--no; i knew it. then it's a go, eh?because i count on you to ring up the cunard office first thing tomorrow; andyou'd better book a return on a boat from marseilles. i say, dad; it'll be our last timetogether, in this kind of way--.

oh, good!i knew you would." chicago rang off, and archer rose and beganto pace up and down the room. it would be their last time together inthis kind of way: the boy was right. they would have lots of other "times" afterdallas's marriage, his father was sure; for the two were born comrades, and fannybeaufort, whatever one might think of her, did not seem likely to interfere with theirintimacy. on the contrary, from what he had seen ofher, he thought she would be naturally included in it. still, change was change, and differenceswere differences, and much as he felt

himself drawn toward his future daughter-in-law, it was tempting to seize this last chance of being alone with his boy. there was no reason why he should not seizeit, except the profound one that he had lost the habit of travel. may had disliked to move except for validreasons, such as taking the children to the sea or in the mountains: she could imagineno other motive for leaving the house in thirty-ninth street or their comfortablequarters at the wellands' in newport. after dallas had taken his degree she hadthought it her duty to travel for six months; and the whole family had made theold-fashioned tour through england,

switzerland and italy. their time being limited (no one knew why)they had omitted france. archer remembered dallas's wrath at beingasked to contemplate mont blanc instead of rheims and chartres. but mary and bill wanted mountain-climbing,and had already yawned their way in dallas's wake through the englishcathedrals; and may, always fair to her children, had insisted on holding the balance evenly between their athletic andartistic proclivities. she had indeed proposed that her husbandshould go to paris for a fortnight, and

join them on the italian lakes after theyhad "done" switzerland; but archer had declined. "we'll stick together," he said; and may'sface had brightened at his setting such a good example to dallas. since her death, nearly two years before,there had been no reason for his continuing in the same routine. his children had urged him to travel: marychivers had felt sure it would do him good to go abroad and "see the galleries."the very mysteriousness of such a cure made her the more confident of its efficacy.

but archer had found himself held fast byhabit, by memories, by a sudden startled shrinking from new things.now, as he reviewed his past, he saw into what a deep rut he had sunk. the worst of doing one's duty was that itapparently unfitted one for doing anything else.at least that was the view that the men of his generation had taken. the trenchant divisions between right andwrong, honest and dishonest, respectable and the reverse, had left so little scopefor the unforeseen. there are moments when a man's imagination,so easily subdued to what it lives in,

suddenly rises above its daily level, andsurveys the long windings of destiny. archer hung there and wondered.... what was left of the little world he hadgrown up in, and whose standards had bent and bound him? he remembered a sneering prophecy of poorlawrence lefferts's, uttered years ago in that very room: "if things go on at thisrate, our children will be marrying beaufort's bastards." it was just what archer's eldest son, thepride of his life, was doing; and nobody wondered or reproved.

even the boy's aunt janey, who still lookedso exactly as she used to in her elderly youth, had taken her mother's emeralds andseed-pearls out of their pink cotton-wool, and carried them with her own twitching hands to the future bride; and fannybeaufort, instead of looking disappointed at not receiving a "set" from a parisjeweller, had exclaimed at their old- fashioned beauty, and declared that when she wore them she should feel like anisabey miniature. fanny beaufort, who had appeared in newyork at eighteen, after the death of her parents, had won its heart much as madameolenska had won it thirty years earlier;

only instead of being distrustful and afraid of her, society took her joyfullyfor granted. she was pretty, amusing and accomplished:what more did any one want? nobody was narrow-minded enough to rake upagainst her the half-forgotten facts of her father's past and her own origin. only the older people remembered so obscurean incident in the business life of new york as beaufort's failure, or the factthat after his wife's death he had been quietly married to the notorious fanny ring, and had left the country with his newwife, and a little girl who inherited her

beauty. he was subsequently heard of inconstantinople, then in russia; and a dozen years later american travellers werehandsomely entertained by him in buenos ayres, where he represented a largeinsurance agency. he and his wife died there in the odour ofprosperity; and one day their orphaned daughter had appeared in new york in chargeof may archer's sister-in-law, mrs. jack welland, whose husband had been appointedthe girl's guardian. the fact threw her into almost cousinlyrelationship with newland archer's children, and nobody was surprised whendallas's engagement was announced.

nothing could more dearly give the measureof the distance that the world had travelled. people nowadays were too busy--busy withreforms and "movements," with fads and fetishes and frivolities--to bother muchabout their neighbours. and of what account was anybody's past, inthe huge kaleidoscope where all the social atoms spun around on the same plane? newland archer, looking out of his hotelwindow at the stately gaiety of the paris streets, felt his heart beating with theconfusion and eagerness of youth. it was long since it had thus plunged andreared under his widening waistcoat,

leaving him, the next minute, with an emptybreast and hot temples. he wondered if it was thus that his son'sconducted itself in the presence of miss fanny beaufort--and decided that it wasnot. "it functions as actively, no doubt, butthe rhythm is different," he reflected, recalling the cool composure with which theyoung man had announced his engagement, and taken for granted that his family wouldapprove. "the difference is that these young peopletake it for granted that they're going to get whatever they want, and that we almostalways took it for granted that we shouldn't.

only, i wonder--the thing one's so certainof in advance: can it ever make one's heart beat as wildly?" it was the day after their arrival inparis, and the spring sunshine held archer in his open window, above the wide silveryprospect of the place vendome. one of the things he had stipulated--almostthe only one--when he had agreed to come abroad with dallas, was that, in paris, heshouldn't be made to go to one of the newfangled "palaces." "oh, all right--of course," dallas good-naturedly agreed. "i'll take you to some jolly old-fashionedplace--the bristol say--" leaving his

father speechless at hearing that thecentury-long home of kings and emperors was now spoken of as an old-fashioned inn, where one went for its quaintinconveniences and lingering local colour. archer had pictured often enough, in thefirst impatient years, the scene of his return to paris; then the personal visionhad faded, and he had simply tried to see the city as the setting of madame olenska'slife. sitting alone at night in his library,after the household had gone to bed, he had evoked the radiant outbreak of spring downthe avenues of horse-chestnuts, the flowers and statues in the public gardens, the

whiff of lilacs from the flower-carts, themajestic roll of the river under the great bridges, and the life of art and study andpleasure that filled each mighty artery to bursting. now the spectacle was before him in itsglory, and as he looked out on it he felt shy, old-fashioned, inadequate: a mere greyspeck of a man compared with the ruthless magnificent fellow he had dreamed ofbeing.... dallas's hand came down cheerily on hisshoulder. "hullo, father: this is something like,isn't it?" they stood for a while looking out insilence, and then the young man continued:

"by the way, i've got a message for you:the countess olenska expects us both at half-past five." he said it lightly, carelessly, as he mighthave imparted any casual item of information, such as the hour at whichtheir train was to leave for florence the next evening. archer looked at him, and thought he saw inhis gay young eyes a gleam of his great- grandmother mingott's malice."oh, didn't i tell you?" dallas pursued. "fanny made me swear to do three thingswhile i was in paris: get her the score of

the last debussy songs, go to the grand-guignol and see madame olenska. you know she was awfully good to fanny whenmr. beaufort sent her over from buenos ayres to the assomption. fanny hadn't any friends in paris, andmadame olenska used to be kind to her and trot her about on holidays.i believe she was a great friend of the first mrs. beaufort's. and she's our cousin, of course.so i rang her up this morning, before i went out, and told her you and i were herefor two days and wanted to see her." archer continued to stare at him.

"you told her i was here?""of course--why not?" dallas's eye brows went up whimsically. then, getting no answer, he slipped his armthrough his father's with a confidential pressure."i say, father: what was she like?" archer felt his colour rise under his son'sunabashed gaze. "come, own up: you and she were great pals,weren't you? wasn't she most awfully lovely?" "lovely?i don't know. she was different.""ah--there you have it!

that's what it always comes to, doesn't it? when she comes, she's different--and onedoesn't know why. it's exactly what i feel about fanny."his father drew back a step, releasing his arm. "about fanny?but, my dear fellow--i should hope so! only i don't see--""dash it, dad, don't be prehistoric! wasn't she--once--your fanny?" dallas belonged body and soul to the newgeneration. he was the first-born of newland and mayarcher, yet it had never been possible to

inculcate in him even the rudiments ofreserve. "what's the use of making mysteries? it only makes people want to nose 'em out,"he always objected when enjoined to discretion.but archer, meeting his eyes, saw the filial light under their banter. "my fanny?""well, the woman you'd have chucked everything for: only you didn't," continuedhis surprising son. "i didn't," echoed archer with a kind ofsolemnity. "no: you date, you see, dear old boy.but mother said--"

"your mother?" "yes: the day before she died.it was when she sent for me alone--you remember? she said she knew we were safe with you,and always would be, because once, when she asked you to, you'd given up the thing youmost wanted." archer received this strange communicationin silence. his eyes remained unseeingly fixed on thethronged sunlit square below the window. at length he said in a low voice: "shenever asked me." "no. i forgot.you never did ask each other anything, did

you? and you never told each other anything.you just sat and watched each other, and guessed at what was going on underneath.a deaf-and-dumb asylum, in fact! well, i back your generation for knowingmore about each other's private thoughts than we ever have time to find out aboutour own.--i say, dad," dallas broke off, "you're not angry with me? if you are, let's make it up and go andlunch at henri's. i've got to rush out to versaillesafterward." archer did not accompany his son toversailles.

he preferred to spend the afternoon insolitary roamings through paris. he had to deal all at once with the packedregrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.after a little while he did not regret dallas's indiscretion. it seemed to take an iron band from hisheart to know that, after all, some one had guessed and pitied....and that it should have been his wife moved him indescribably. dallas, for all his affectionate insight,would not have understood that. to the boy, no doubt, the episode was onlya pathetic instance of vain frustration, of

wasted forces. but was it really no more?for a long time archer sat on a bench in the champs elysees and wondered, while thestream of life rolled by.... a few streets away, a few hours away, ellenolenska waited. she had never gone back to her husband, andwhen he had died, some years before, she had made no change in her way of living. there was nothing now to keep her andarcher apart--and that afternoon he was to see her. he got up and walked across the place de laconcorde and the tuileries gardens to the

louvre. she had once told him that she often wentthere, and he had a fancy to spend the intervening time in a place where he couldthink of her as perhaps having lately been. for an hour or more he wandered fromgallery to gallery through the dazzle of afternoon light, and one by one thepictures burst on him in their half- forgotten splendour, filling his soul withthe long echoes of beauty. after all, his life had been toostarved.... suddenly, before an effulgent titian, hefound himself saying: "but i'm only fifty- seven--" and then he turned away.

for such summer dreams it was too late; butsurely not for a quiet harvest of friendship, of comradeship, in the blessedhush of her nearness. he went back to the hotel, where he anddallas were to meet; and together they walked again across the place de laconcorde and over the bridge that leads to the chamber of deputies. dallas, unconscious of what was going on inhis father's mind, was talking excitedly and abundantly of versailles. he had had but one previous glimpse of it,during a holiday trip in which he had tried to pack all the sights he had been deprivedof when he had had to go with the family to

switzerland; and tumultuous enthusiasm and cock-sure criticism tripped each other upon his lips. as archer listened, his sense of inadequacyand inexpressiveness increased. the boy was not insensitive, he knew; buthe had the facility and self-confidence that came of looking at fate not as amaster but as an equal. "that's it: they feel equal to things--theyknow their way about," he mused, thinking of his son as the spokesman of the newgeneration which had swept away all the old landmarks, and with them the sign-posts andthe danger-signal. suddenly dallas stopped short, grasping hisfather's arm.

"oh, by jove," he exclaimed. they had come out into the great tree-planted space before the invalides. the dome of mansart floated ethereallyabove the budding trees and the long grey front of the building: drawing up intoitself all the rays of afternoon light, it hung there like the visible symbol of therace's glory. archer knew that madame olenska lived in asquare near one of the avenues radiating from the invalides; and he had pictured thequarter as quiet and almost obscure, forgetting the central splendour that litit up. now, by some queer process of association,that golden light became for him the

pervading illumination in which she lived. for nearly thirty years, her life--of whichhe knew so strangely little--had been spent in this rich atmosphere that he alreadyfelt to be too dense and yet too stimulating for his lungs. he thought of the theatres she must havebeen to, the pictures she must have looked at, the sober and splendid old houses shemust have frequented, the people she must have talked with, the incessant stir of ideas, curiosities, images and associationsthrown out by an intensely social race in a setting of immemorial manners; and suddenlyhe remembered the young frenchman who had

once said to him: "ah, good conversation--there is nothing like it, is there?" archer had not seen m. riviere, or heard ofhim, for nearly thirty years; and that fact gave the measure of his ignorance of madameolenska's existence. more than half a lifetime divided them, andshe had spent the long interval among people he did not know, in a society he butfaintly guessed at, in conditions he would never wholly understand. during that time he had been living withhis youthful memory of her; but she had doubtless had other and more tangiblecompanionship. perhaps she too had kept her memory of himas something apart; but if she had, it must

have been like a relic in a small dimchapel, where there was not time to pray every day.... they had crossed the place des invalides,and were walking down one of the thoroughfares flanking the building. it was a quiet quarter, after all, in spiteof its splendour and its history; and the fact gave one an idea of the riches parishad to draw on, since such scenes as this were left to the few and the indifferent. the day was fading into a soft sun-shothaze, pricked here and there by a yellow electric light, and passers were rare inthe little square into which they had

turned. dallas stopped again, and looked up. "it must be here," he said, slipping hisarm through his father's with a movement from which archer's shyness did not shrink;and they stood together looking up at the house. it was a modern building, withoutdistinctive character, but many-windowed, and pleasantly balconied up its wide cream-coloured front. on one of the upper balconies, which hungwell above the rounded tops of the horse- chestnuts in the square, the awnings werestill lowered, as though the sun had just

left it. "i wonder which floor--?"dallas conjectured; and moving toward the porte-cochere he put his head into theporter's lodge, and came back to say: "the fifth. it must be the one with the awnings."archer remained motionless, gazing at the upper windows as if the end of theirpilgrimage had been attained. "i say, you know, it's nearly six," his sonat length reminded him. the father glanced away at an empty benchunder the trees. "i believe i'll sit there a moment," hesaid.

"why--aren't you well?" his son exclaimed."oh, perfectly. but i should like you, please, to go upwithout me." dallas paused before him, visiblybewildered. "but, i say, dad: do you mean you won'tcome up at all?" "i don't know," said archer slowly."if you don't she won't understand." "go, my boy; perhaps i shall follow you." dallas gave him a long look through thetwilight. "but what on earth shall i say?""my dear fellow, don't you always know what to say?" his father rejoined with a smile.

"very well.i shall say you're old-fashioned, and prefer walking up the five flights becauseyou don't like lifts." his father smiled again. "say i'm old-fashioned: that's enough."dallas looked at him again, and then, with an incredulous gesture, passed out of sightunder the vaulted doorway. archer sat down on the bench and continuedto gaze at the awninged balcony. he calculated the time it would take hisson to be carried up in the lift to the fifth floor, to ring the bell, and beadmitted to the hall, and then ushered into the drawing-room.

he pictured dallas entering that room withhis quick assured step and his delightful smile, and wondered if the people wereright who said that his boy "took after him." then he tried to see the persons already inthe room--for probably at that sociable hour there would be more than one--andamong them a dark lady, pale and dark, who would look up quickly, half rise, and hold out a long thin hand with three rings onit.... he thought she would be sitting in a sofa-corner near the fire, with azaleas banked behind her on a table.

"it's more real to me here than if i wentup," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of realityshould lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other. he sat for a long time on the bench in thethickening dusk, his eyes never turning from the balcony. at length a light shone through thewindows, and a moment later a man-servant came out on the balcony, drew up theawnings, and closed the shutters. at that, as if it had been the signal hewaited for, newland archer got up slowly and walked back alone to his hotel.

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