but permitted
herself to suffer from intense mortification at the faults which others
would have passed unnoticed. Marriage and society having failed to
supply the happiness she desired, she turned to books. Her selections of
reading, however, were destined to intensify her restlessness, for in
the pages of Daudet, Bourget and de Maupassant she found the anomalies
of human weakness painted in brilliant and exculpatory colors. The
clever portraitures of these subtle analysts created a spirit which
caused her to explain her eccentricities of feeling by comparison with
the emotions described in their yellow-covered records. She became a
disciple of the modern philosophy of introspection, which, unlike that
of the stoic and anchorite, is not intended to humble desire, but to
create a morbid craving for the unattainable. Recognizing that the
absorbing passion of her life was yet to come, she scrupulously analyzed
each impulse she felt and resolved it into infinitesimal atoms of
feeling, which again were subjectively compared with the minutest
details of her analytical romances. The consequence was that her
emotions were kept in a state of continual irritation, and ordinary
pleasures becoming less and less gratifying, a desire for new
excitements and experiences was created. It was in such a state of mind
that Florence Moreland had found her, and, since the latter's arrival in
Chicago she had striven unsuccessfully to dispel the spirit of
depression which had taken possession of her friend.

On the afternoon of the day following the performance of "Otello,"
Florence, cold and rosy from tobogganing, burst into the drawing room.
She expected to find Marion in one of her moods, and she was astonished
to find her dressed to go out and carelessly strumming on the piano.
Marion looked up, and, seeing Florence, burst into laughter at her
tousled locks and red cheeks. "You had better stand over the register
and get thawed out," Marion remarked cheerfully; then, thumping the
piano again, she continued: "How was the slide?"

"Capital! and hundreds of people there," was Florence's reply. Then,
wondering at Marion's sudden change of spirits, she added, "Are you
going to the McSeeney's tea?"

"Yes; I intend to take Mr. Grahame."

"I suppose I shall have to get there the best way I can."

"You can take the brougham. What do you think of him?"

"Who, the brougham?"

"No; Mr. Grahame, you silly."

"O, he is like many New Yorkers, o