had come many reflections upon the
practical aspects of what he had done. It pleased him with himself to
find that, in this first test, he had not the least regret, but on the
contrary a genuine pride in the courageous independence he had
shown--another and strong support to his conviction of his superiority
to his fellow-men. He might be somewhat snobbish--who was not?--who else
in his New York was less than supersaturated with snobbishness? But
snobbishness, the determining quality in the natures of all the women
and most of the men he knew, had shown itself one of the incidental
qualities in his own nature. After all, reflected he, it took a man, a
good deal of a man, to do what he had done, and not to regret it, even
in the hour of disillusionment. And it must be said for this egotistic
self-approval of his that like all his judgments there was sound merit
of truth in it. The vanity of the nincompoop is ridiculous. The vanity
of the man of ability is amusing and no doubt due to a defective point
of view upon the proportions of the universe; but it is not without
excuse, and those who laugh might do well to discriminate even as they
guffaw.

Looking discreetly about, Norman was suddenly confronted by the face of
Josephine Burroughs, only two tables away.

Until their eyes squarely met he did not know she was there, or even in
America. Before he could make a beginning of glancing away, she gave him
her sweetest smile and her friendliest bow. And Dorothy, looking to see
to whom he was speaking, was astonished to receive the same radiance of
cordiality. Norman was pleased at the way his wife dealt with the
situation. She returned both bow and smile in her own quiet, slightly
reserved way of gentle dignity.

"Who was that, speaking?" asked she.

"Miss Burroughs. You must remember her."

He noted it as characteristic that she said, quite sincerely: "Oh, so it
is. I didn't remember her. That is the girl you were engaged to."

"Yes--'the nice girl uptown,'" said he.

"I didn't like her," said Dorothy, with evident small interest in the
subject. "She was vain."

"You mean you didn't like her way of being vain," suggested Norman.
"Everyone is vain; so, if we disliked for vanity we should dislike
everyone."

"Yes, it was her way. And just now she spoke to us both, as if she were
doing us a favor."

"Gracious, it's called," said he. "What of it? It does us no harm and
gives her about the only happiness she's got."