cted
her as a scarabaeus must affect the rose.

She discerned in him unsuspected dimensions. He was at home in recondite
matters, and yet capable of shedding new light on threadbare themes.
During discussions between him and her father at which she assisted she
gained an insight into bi-metallism, free trade even, and subjects of
like import, the which hitherto she had regarded as abstract diseases
created for the affliction of politicians and editorial hacks. He was at
home too in larger issues, in the cunning of Ottoman tactics and the
beat of drums at Kandahar. Concerning King Arthur he was vague, but he
had the power to startle her with new perspectives, the possibilities of
dynamics, the abolition of time, the sequestration and conquest of
space. And as he spoke easily, fluently, in the ungesticulatory fashion
of those that know whereof they speak, more than once she fell to
wondering as to the cause of that early dislike. In such wise was
Desdemona won.

It so happened that one evening she chanced to dine with a friend of
hers, Mrs. Nicholas Manhattan by name, a lady whose sources of social
information were large. Among other guests was Alphabet Jones, the
novelist.

"Did you ever hear of Mr. Usselex?" Eden asked, over the sweets.

Mrs. Manhattan visibly drew on the invisible cap of thought. "Never
heard of him," she presently exclaimed, as one who should say, "and for
me not to have heard argues him unknown."

But Jones was there, and he slipped his oar in at once. "I know him,"
he answered. "He is the son of a shoemaker. No end of money! Some years
ago a cashier of his did the embezzlement act, but Usselex declined to
prosecute."

"Yes, that is like him," said Eden.

"Ah! you know him, then?" and Jones looked at her. "Well," he continued,
"the cashier was sent up all the same. He had a wife, it appeared, and
children. Usselex gave them enough to live on, and more too, I believe."

"He must have done it very simply."

"Why, you must know him well!" Jones exclaimed; and the conversation
changed.

Meanwhile winter dragged itself along, and abruptly, as is usual with
our winters, disappeared. In its stead came a spring that was languider
than summer. Fifth Avenue was bright with smart bonnets and gowns of
conservatory hues. During the winter months Mr. Menemon's face had been
distressed as the pavements, but now it was entirely serene.

It was evident to Eden that Mr. Usselex was not a philosopher alon