ed to the older women, and offered his
arm to Mrs. Wheaton when two waiters, unmistakably from a San Francisco
caterer, threw open the doors upon a hall that separated the ballroom
from the old hotel dining-room. The startled guests filed hastily across
to find a dainty but sumptuous repast served at little tables. Even the
ice-cream was frozen in graceful shapes instead of being ladled out of a
freezer in full view of the company, and there was such an abundance of
all things, served with despatch by the professional waiters, that Mrs.
Haight was permitted to consume three plates of oysters _a la poulette_.

"This must have cost a pretty penny!" she muttered to Mrs.
Wheaton--Gwynne was dancing attendance on Miss Boutts once more. "Much
money she'll save! One would think this was San Francisco, and some
swell house on Nob Hill. I don't believe a thing was cooked in her own
kitchen."

"I should think not! This supper is from the St. Francis, or The Palace,
or The Poodle Dog--" Mrs. Wheaton ran off the names of all the famous
San Francisco restaurants, to the ill-concealed spite of Mrs. Haight who
did not dine in San Francisco once a year. "But as you suggest, I cannot
imagine how she expects to make a fortune in chickens if she throws
about money like this. No wonder Mr. Gwynne isn't good enough for
her--but perhaps that's the reason he's selling off so much of his
ranch. Mr. Wheaton says he thinks of putting up an office building on
some land he has south of Market Street."

"To my way of thinking, Isabel Otis and matrimony don't gee. She's
altogether too advanced. Just you wait."

The young people, meanwhile, were very gay, and there was little doubt
in Isabel's mind that if she lived in Rosewater and chose to revive and
lead the old social life she could drive cards to the wall in the first
engagement. She had been much elated with her success, but, of a sudden,
as her eyes roved benignantly over her chattering delighted guests,
ennui descended upon her: those ancestral mutterings in the soul that
stir dim memories of great moments of a greater time, inviting a vague
contempt and distaste for the petty incidents and achievements that make
up the sum of life. Isabel had experienced this faint sensation of
futility and disgust many times before, and although she was wise enough
not to let it paralyze her will, and to turn it to account in holding
her to her higher ideals, still she often envied the Dolly Bouttses,
w