fted glass cannot
heighten? That pretty girl yonder--is she wife or widow?--slight and
fresh and fair, they say has an ambition to extend her notoriety by
going upon the stage; the young lady with her, who does not seem to fear
a public place, may be helping her on the road. The two young gentlemen,
their attendants, have the air of taking life more seriously than the
girls, but regard with respectful interest the mounting vivacity of
their companions, which rises and sparkles like the bubbles in the
slender glasses which they raise to their lips with the dainty grace of
practice. The staid family parties who are supping at adjoining tables
notice this group with curiosity, and express their opinion by elevated
eyebrows.

Margaret leaned back in her chair and regarded the whole in a musing'
frame of mind. I think she apprehended nothing of it except the light,
the color, the beauty, the movement of gayety. For her the notes of the
orchestra sounded through it all--the voices of the singers, the hum of
the house; it was all a spectacle and a play. Why should she not enjoy
it? There was something in the nature of the girl that responded to
this form of pleasure--the legitimate pleasure the senses take in being
gratified. "It is so different," she said to me, "from the pleasure
one has in an evening by the fire. Do you know, even Mr. Morgan seems
worldly here."

It was a deeper matter than she thought, this about worldliness, which
had been raised in Margaret's mind. Have we all double natures, and do
we simply conform to whatever surrounds us? Is there any difference in
kind between the country worldliness and the city worldliness? I do
not suppose that Margaret formulated any of these ideas in words. Her
knowledge of the city had hitherto been superficial. It was a place
for shopping, for a day in a picture exhibition, for an evening in
the theatre, no more a part of her existence than a novel or a book of
travels: of the life of the town she knew nothing. That night in her
room she became aware for the first time of another world, restless,
fascinating, striving, full of opportunities. What must London be?

If we could only note the first coming into the mind of a thought that
changes life and re-forms character--supposing that every act and every
new departure has this subtle beginning--we might be less the sport of
circumstances than we seem to be. Unnoted, the desire so swiftly follows
the thought and juggles with