round: "I am here in place of another. I am not known. I am as a
writer who hides behind a pen-name."

The evening came with a rumble of carriages. An invitation to a
reception means, "Come and be pleased. Frowns are to be left at home."
The difference between one society gathering and another is the
difference that exists between two white shoes--one may be larger than
the other. Witherspoon was lordly, and in his smile a stranger might
have seen a life of generosities. And with what a welcoming dignity he
took the hand that in its time had cut the throats of a thousand hogs.
Diamonds gleamed in the mellowed light, and there were smiles none the
less radiant for having been carefully trained. The evening was warm.
There was a wing-like movement of feathered fans. Scented time was
flying away.

The guests were gone, and Henry sat in his room. He had thrown off the
garments which convention had prescribed, and now, with his feet on a
table, he sat smoking an old black pipe that he had lolled with on the
mountains of Costa Rica. The night which was now ending waved back for
review. Ellen, beautiful in an empire gown, golden yellow, brocaded
satin. "Why did you try to dodge this?" she had asked in a whisper.
"You are the most self-possessed man in the house. Can't you see how
proud we all are of you? I have never seen mother so happy."

The perfume of praise was in the air. "Oh, I think your brother is
just charming," a young woman had said to Ellen, and Henry had caught
the words.

"He is like my mother's people." Mrs. Witherspoon was talking to a
woman whose hair had been grayed and who appeared to enjoy the
distinction of being an invalid. The Coltons and the Brooks contingent
had smeared him with compliments. There was a literary group, and the
titles of a hundred books were mentioned; one writer was charming;
another was horrid. There was the group of household government, and
the servant-girl question, which has never been found in repose, was
tossed from one woman to another and caught as a bag of sweets. In the
library was a commercial and real-estate gathering, and the field of
speculation was broken up, harrowed and seeded down.

The black-bearded muser put his pipe aside, and from this glowing
scene his thoughts flew away into a dark night when he stood in
Ulmata, knocking at the door of a deserted house. He got up and stood
at the window. Sparrows twittered. Threads of gray dawn streaked the
black warp of