oachments on the part of scions of
wealth. They were destined to prove abortive. One of these youths,
Pedro Ricer Marcado, a Brazilian, educated at Oxford, promised much for
sincerity and feeling until he learned that Berenice was poor in her
own right--and what else? Some one had whispered something in his ear.
Again there was a certain William Drake Bowdoin, the son of a famous
old family, who lived on the north side of Washington Square. After a
ball, a morning musicale, and one other affair at which they met
Bowdoin took Berenice to see his mother and sister, who were charmed.
"Oh, you serene divinity!" he said to her, ecstatically, one day.
"Won't you marry me?" Bevy looked at him and wondered. "Let us wait
just a little longer, my dear," she counseled. "I want you to be sure
that you really love me. Shortly thereafter, meeting an old classmate
at a club, Bowdoin was greeted as follows:

"Look here, Bowdoin. You're a friend of mine. I see you with that
Miss Fleming. Now, I don't know how far things have gone, and I don't
want to intrude, but are you sure you are aware of all the aspects of
the case?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Bowdoin. "I want you to speak out."

"Oh, pardon, old man. No offense, really. You know me. I couldn't.
College--and all that. Just this, though, before you go any further.
Inquire about. You may hear things. If they're true you ought to
know. If not, the talking ought to stop. If I'm wrong call on me for
amends. I hear talk, I tell you. Best intentions in the world, old
man. I do assure you."

More inquiries. The tongues of jealousy and envy. Mr. Bowdoin was
sure to inherit three million dollars. Then a very necessary trip to
somewhere, and Berenice stared at herself in the glass. What was it?
What were people saying, if anything? This was strange. Well, she was
young and beautiful. There were others. Still, she might have come to
love Bowdoin. He was so airy, artistic in an unconscious way. Really,
she had thought better of him.

The effect of all this was not wholly depressing. Enigmatic,
disdainful, with a touch of melancholy and a world of gaiety and
courage, Berenice heard at times behind joy the hollow echo of
unreality. Here was a ticklish business, this living. For want of
light and air the finest flowers might die. Her mother's error was not
so inexplicable now. By it had she not, after all, preserved herself
and her family to a certain phase