can, the
hopeful spirit of our New York of New Manhattan that does not grovel to
mere money power."

Miss Lavinia seemed a little abashed, but Martin Cortright, who had been
a silent observer until now, said: "It surprises me to see fraternity of
this sort in the midst of so many institutions of specialized
exclusiveness and the decadence of clubs, that used to be veritable
brotherhoods, by unwise expansion. I like the general atmosphere, it
seems cheerful and, if one may blend the terms, conservatively Bohemian."

"Come upstairs before the music begins, so that we can get comfortably
settled in the background, that I may tell you who some of these
'unknown-to-Whirlpool-society' people are. You may be surprised," said
Evan to Miss Lavinia, who had by this time finished her coffee.

The rooms were cheerful with artistic simplicity. The piano had been
moved from the lounging room into the picture gallery opposite to where a
fine stained glass window was exhibited, backed by electric lights.

We stowed ourselves away in a deep seat, shaped something like an
old-fashioned school form, backed and cushioned with leather, to watch
the audience gather. Every phase of dress was present, from the ball gown
to the rainy weather skirt, and enough of each grade to keep one another
in countenance. About half the men wore evening suits, but those who did
not were completely at their ease.

There was no regular ushering to seats, but every one was placed
easily and naturally. Evan, who had Miss Lavinia in charge, was
alert, and rather, it seemed to me, on the defensive; but though
Martin asked questions, he was comfortably soothing, and seemed to
take in much at a glance.

That short man with the fine head, white hair and beard, aquiline nose,
and intense eyes is not only a poet, but the first American critic of
pure literature. He lives out of town, but comes to the city daily for a
certain stimulus. The petite woman with the pretty colour who has crossed
the room to speak to him is the best known writer of New England romance.
That shy-looking fellow standing against the curtain at your right, with
the brown mustache and broad forehead, is the New England sculptor whose
forcible creations are known everywhere, yet he is almost shrinkingly
modest, and he never, it seems, even in thought, has broken the
injunction of "Let another praise thee, not thine own lips."

Half a dozen promising painters are standing in the doorway talk