"But Isabel! We raise the voluptuous by the score, Gwynne,
houris to beat the band. Climate's a regular Venus factory; but somehow
we don't get the classic very often. Too mixed, probably. Will have to
wait another generation or two. Eyes, complexions, figures--ye gods! But
noses--somehow they run to snub. Still! Look over there. Ever see
anything more fetching than those great Irish eyes in a regular little
Dago mug? She's worth three cold millions and I pine to paint her. The
price would be a mere detail. But to return to Isabel. She has only to
raise her finger to become the rage, and I want her to raise it."

"I wonder how much they would care for her if she hadn't been born into
one of the sacred old families, and hadn't money to boot!" cried Mrs.
Stone, exasperated beyond endurance by this triumph of marital
tactlessness. "I'd like to know what chance a poor girl has to turn
people's heads--"

"Tut! tut! Brownie, you're jealous. You know there never was a town
where people cared less about money--"

"It's just like any other old town, only you have silly legends about it
that you stick to in the face of facts. That day Isabel took me to the
St. Francis for lunch I never saw so many stuck-up-looking girls in my
life, and they all looked as if they had just sailed out of New York
fashion-plates. There are only about six really fashionable women here
to-night, and they only come because they think it's spicy to get so
close to real vice without actually touching it. For my part I'm sick of
the whole Bohemian game, and I'd like to dine at The St. Francis or The
Palace every night." She turned to Gwynne, her eyes flashing
dramatically; she was tired of being chorus to her popular husband's
leading roles, and was determined to hold the centre of the stage for
Gwynne's edification at least. "They pretend to come here because the
dinner is so good!" she exclaimed. "Good and cheap! But it isn't that a
bit with the swells--the women, that is. They just love the idea of
doing something almost naughty, once in a while in their virtuous
lives--when a San Francisco woman _is_ proper she'd make you really
tired with her superior airs and censorious tongue; but there isn't much
she doesn't know, all the same, and she just revels in venturing this
far."

"I don't understand," said the bewildered Englishman. "Are we dining in
a dive?"

"Not quite, but almost!" cried Stone, refilling his glass from the large
bottle in ice. "Th