anxieties and petty aims have told
already on Rose. Her mind has sunk to the level of what engages it. She
no longer plans for study and self-improvement; she talks of her duties
to society instead, and of its claims upon her. After all"--she thought
a few moments, and then added emphatically--"_after all, I am satisfied
with my lot!_ Even upon the testimony of so prejudiced a witness as
Rose, fashionable life is not a lofty thing. Its two principal standards
appear to be money and smartness; and I do believe the world has a far
higher ideal. It is only a very small minority who worship the great
goddess Fashion, and the image which the Parisian Jupiter sends over
here; the true _elite_ of the world have always been those whose
greatness was in themselves. There's father! In any kind of clothes, or
in any company, he would always be one of the _elite_. I never could
be ashamed of him. But I might be, if I saw him haunting the gay places
of the world, criticising ballet girls, and shuffling cards." She
indulged this train of thought, and lived over again the fantasy of
life Rose had shaped in her imagination.

A knock at the door roused her from it. A maid was there with some
flowers, and an offer of her services, if Miss Van Hoosen wished them.
The flowers were welcome, but the service would have been an
embarrassment. Adriana knew her good points, and was quite able to do
them justice. In her case, it was not the modiste that made the
woman.

When she was dressed she went to the drawing-room. It was full of
flowers and bric-a-brac, but there was not a book to be seen. No one
was in the room; no one was apparently downstairs; she was evidently
early, which at least was better than being late. So she walked about,
looking at this and that, and speculating as to where the _curios_
came from, and what queer histories they might have. Opposite one
entrance to the parlor, there was a large mirror, and before this
mirror a small gilded table. As Adriana passed it, she noticed that it
held a portfolio; and the ribbons which fastened it being untied, she
threw back the cover, and saw that it was full of photographs. Some
faces were young and pretty; others, middle-aged and old, graven all
over with the sharp tools of worldly strife, sorrow, thought, and
experience of various kinds. The aged faces pleased her most; they
were not merely calendars of so many years old, they had most of them
a story to tell.

Presently she came