e they wouldn't have electric cars. Finally
all the street car horses died. Then rather than commit the awful sin
of letting _new_ horses come into the city, they accepted the trolley.
The fashion suits my pocketbook, however, so I've no kick coming."

"What do you want with a car here, anyway?" Macloud asked. "It looks as
if you could walk from one end of the town to the other in fifteen
minutes."

"You can, easily."

"And the baker et cetera have theirs only for show, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's about it--the roads, hereabout, are sandy and poor."

"Then, I'm with your old families. They may be conservative, at times a
trifle too much so, but, in the main, their judgment's pretty reliable,
according to conditions. What sort of place did you find--I mean the
house?"

"Very fair!"

"And the society?"

"Much better than Northumberland."

"Hum--I see--the aristocracy of birth, not dollars."

"Exactly!--How do you do, Mr. Fitzhugh," as they passed a policeman in
uniform.

"Good morning, Mr. Croyden!" was the answer.

"There! that illustrates," said Croyden. "You meet Fitzhugh every place
when he is off duty. He _belongs_. His occupation does not figure, in
the least."

"So you like it--Hampton, I mean?" said Macloud.

"I've been here a month--and that month I've enjoyed--thoroughly
enjoyed. However, I do miss the Clubs and their life."

"I can understand," Macloud interjected.

"And the ability to get, instantly, anything you want----"

"Much of which you don't want--and wouldn't get, if you had to write
for it, or even to walk down town for it--which makes for economy,"
observed Macloud sententiously.

"But, more than either, I miss the personal isolation which one can
have in a big town, when he wishes it--and has always, in some
degree."

"And _that_ gets on your nerves!" laughed Macloud. "Well, you won't
mind it after a while, I think. You'll get used to it, and be quite
oblivious. Is that all your objections?"

"I've been here only a short time, remember. Come back in six months,
say, and I may have kicks in plenty."

"You may find it a bit dreary in winter--who the deuce is that girl
yonder, Geoffrey?" he broke off.

They were opposite Carrington's, and down the walk toward the gate was
coming the maid of the blue-black hair, and slender ankles. She wore a
blue linen gown, a black hat, and her face was framed by a white silk
parasol.

"That is Miss Carrington," said Croyden.

"Hum!--Yo