sorts of people, even the
tramps of the literary profession, make without remorse.

"Charley," said Philip Gouverneur, when he got Millard into a corner,
"what have you been doing? This is society and it isn't; it is more like
what Carlyle calls a 'lion soiree.'"

"Well," said Millard, "it's either society or better. You understand
that the Baron's reputation as a scholar has modified things."

"I say, Charley," said Philip, "I was ashamed to find my little self
lost among these know-it-alls until I met Mrs. Maginnis. She said, 'Oh,
Mr. Gouverneur, I am so glad to see somebody that I know. Who are all
these people?' So I pointed out the university president over there; and
I told her that St. John was our great sculptor, though I'm not sure she
makes any clear distinctions between a sculptor and a maker of
gravestones; and I assured her that we had several magazine editors, and
writers, and illustrators, and painters, and leading journalists, and
some of the very foremost of our German citizens. 'Oh, yes,' she
replied, 'newspaper men, artists, and Germans! Just what I thought; but
there are not more than a dozen people here who were invited to
Marshmallow's great ball last winter.'"

"It mightn't be a bad thing," said Millard, "if Marshmallow, who
pretends to be the boss of society, were to include more people of
artistic and literary distinction such as we have here to-night."

"Nonsense, Charley! he couldn't do it. There are a few men who contrive
to be great and to be men of the world at the same time. But what
society wants is polish. You can put gloss on varnish, but some of these
men are too original to be sand-papered down to a fashionable
uniformity. No, no! Old Red Sandstone and his wife over there are well
enough at a lion soiree, but how would their Silurian manners shine at
the Patriarchs' ball? You see my cousin Phillida, with all her
seriousness, is getting too much of his talk."

At this hint from Philip, Millard moved away and glanced hurriedly about
the room. His eye lighted on Lucas, who is a natural adept as a man of
the world though a man of letters. Approaching him, Millard said:

"Mr. Lucas, let me introduce you to an interesting being."

"That's what I've been looking for in vain all the evening," said Lucas.

The two forced a sinuous way to where Phillida was trying to enjoy the
small talk of a man who was incapable of profitable speech at a depth of
less than fifty fathoms. Millard pres