on, a _cotillon_, a skating masque, and five balls. Two of
the luncheons were at Burlingame and Menlo Park, whence they motored as
valiantly as if the roads were European. How so much was crowded into
one short week Isabel never understood, but finally came to the
conclusion that the rush at its worst was better than remaining for two
consecutive waking hours in the Hofer mansion. Mrs. Hofer was always
amiable and charming, but she was overwhelming. Her energies demanded
the safety-valve of constant speech, and she was one of those American
hostesses that hold that to neglect a guest is an unpardonable breach of
hospitality. She even gave up bridge for the week. Moreover, Isabel was
not long discovering that she contributed her part towards the
sustenance of that wondrous buoyancy, those eternal high spirits, that
glorious _joie de vivre_. The woman was an unconscious vampire. Men did
not feel it, and saw only her irresistible youth, but she squeezed women
as she did her morning sponge, and had no real intimates; although few,
herself least of all, understood the secret. If she had liked Isabel
less, it would have been more endurable, but she had never liked any one
more, to say nothing of the fact that she was determined to give her
"the time of her life." She descended upon her helpless guest with a
rush of silken skirts--that sounded like wings--and a torrent of bright
chatter, during every unoccupied hour or moment. Isabel's only
experience of hospitality heretofore had been in England, where a guest
might die and be resurrected between the formal hours of reunion and the
hostess be none the wiser. It had never occurred to her that visiting
might become hard labor, and as she had met few people whom she had
liked as spontaneously as Ada Hofer, she had come to her without a
misgiving. But she was soon hiding behind the curtains of the big rooms
down-stairs, and, upon one memorable occasion, took refuge under the
library table, while the sweet rapid voice of the hostess clarioned
throughout the house. She was drawn guiltily forth by a deep chuckle
from the arm-chair in the window. Mr. Toole regarded her with a twinkle
in his bright old eyes, and no resentment.

"I won't tell on ye," he said. "I feel like it meself, at times. Ada's a
good child, as good as a born egoist can be, but--well--we are not all
made on the same plan. And this life don't suit you. You're a dreamer. I
know one when I see one, for I've that side t