l beings, beautiful dreams come true, not in the
future merely, but in a walk-up.

V

In Park Avenue that night there was no dramatic father in waiting. There
were no bills, no scenes, no thought of secret errands; merely a
drawing-room in which a fire was burning and where, presently, Margaret
and Lennox were alone.

"I have letters to write," Mrs. Austen told them.

She had no letters to write, but she did have a thing or two to
consider. What the wolf was to Cassy's father, Lennox was to her.

At dinner, Peter Verelst's advice to do nothing had seemed strategic. At
the Splendor, it had seemed stupid. The spectacle of that girl
hobnobbing with Lennox had interested her enormously. If a spectacle can
drip, that had dripped and with possibilities which, if dim as yet, were
none the less providential, particularly when viewed spaciously, in the
light of other possibilities which Paliser exhaled. Mrs. Austen was a
woman of distinction. You had only to look at her to be aware of it.
Yet, at the possible possibilities, she licked her chops.

Meanwhile, with the seriousness of those to whom love is not the
sentiment that it once was, or the sensation that it has become, but the
dense incarnate mystery that it ever should be, Margaret and Lennox were
also occupied with the future.

In connection with it, Lennox asked: "Can you come to-morrow?"

As he spoke, Margaret released her hand. Her mother was entering and he
stood up.

"Mrs. Austen," he resumed, "won't you and Margaret have tea at my
apartment to-morrow?"

He would have reseated himself but the lady saw to it that he did not.

"You have such pleasant programmes, Mr. Lennox. You are not going
though, are you? Well, if you must, good-night."

It was boreal, yet, however arctic, it was smiling, debonair. As such,
Lennox had no recourse but to accept it. He bent over Margaret's hand,
touched two of Mrs. Austen's fingers. In a moment, he had gone.

Mrs. Austen, smiling still, sat down.

"Nice young man. Very nice. Nice hats, nice ties, nice coats. Then also
he is a theosophist, I suppose, or, if not, then by way of becoming one.
What more could the heart desire? Would you mind putting out one of
those lights? Not that one--the other."

Gowned in grey which in spite of its hue contrived to be brilliant, Mrs.
Austen rustled ever so slightly. Always a handsome woman and well aware
of it, she was of two minds about her daughter's looks. They far
surpa