r. Lenox has to dress
for dinner, instead of putting on old slippers and going out to weed the
strawberry-bed, which is what he would like to do when he gets out on
the evening train."

"Poor things, in bondage to their house!" said Norris, and they all
looked solemnly at the multitude of lights shining through the trees.

"There are ever so many disadvantages about being among the few very
rich people in a western town, where most of your friends aren't
opulent," Madeline went on. "When Mrs. Lenox makes a call, she has to
wait while the woman changes her dress. And nobody says to her, 'Oh, do
stay to lunch,' when they've nothing but oysters or beefsteak, but they
wait till they get in an extra chef and then send her a formal
invitation. I believe ours is one of the half-dozen houses where people
don't pretend to be something quite different from what they are when
Mrs. Lenox appears. And yet she's the most simple-minded and genuine
person, and would rather have beefsteak and friendship than _pate de
fois gras_ and good gowns any day."

"Poor things!" said Dick again.

"I think they are out on the terrace now. Would you like to go over and
see them?" Madeline asked.

"No, thank you," said Dick politely. "We won't make their life any more
complicated. Besides, I prefer the society of you and the stars to that
of the miserable too-rich. And they are not alone."

"Of course not. They never are. But Mrs. Lenox said yesterday that late
this fall, when every one else has gone into winter quarters, she is
going to ask you and me and perhaps one or two others to visit her; and
we'll have a serene and lovely time."

"Do you think that there is any hope that they will have lost part of
their money by that time?" asked Dick.

"Father says Mr. Windsor has forgotten how to lose money, and of course
Mr. Windsor and Mr. Lenox are all one."

"I must see to it that I don't marry a millionaire's daughter," said
Dick.

CHAPTER V

SALAD DAYS

The most desirable thing in life is to have the sense of doing your duty
without the trouble of doing it. Therefore days of preparation are
always delicious days. There is the mingling of repose with all the joys
of activity. To be planning to do things has in it more of triumph than
the actual doing. It carries the irradiating light of hope and purpose,
without the petty pin-prick of detail which comes when reality parodies
ideals.

Dick's first summer at home was a period o