ents, she drew beautifully. Fine woman, too. Even my
mother forgave her for not having a drop of Dutch or Revolutionary blood
in her veins, and we all liked her very much. Give Mrs. Hilbrough that
tip."

Millard shook his head, and smiled. He had the appreciative smile of a
man with a genius for listening, which is a better, because a rarer,
contribution to conversation than good speech. Philip, crouched in his
chair with his face averted from the electric lights, went on:

"Well, then you know there is the literary dodge. Have papers read, not
enough to bore people too deeply, but to bore them just enough to give
those who attend an impression of intellectuality. Have discussions of
literary questions, seasoned with stewed terrapin, and decorated with
dress coats and external anatomy gowns. Those who go to such places
flatter themselves that they are getting into literary circles and
improving their minds, especially if a popular magazinist or the son of
some great author can be persuaded to read one of his rejected articles
or to make a few remarks now and then. Then there is the musical dodge
on the drawing-room scale, or by wholesale, like the Seidl Society, for
example. One is able by this means to promote a beautiful art and
increase one's social conspicuousness at the same time. Then there is
the distinguished-foreigner dodge, give a reception in honor of--"

"Hang it, Philip; I'll tell Mrs. Hilbrough to send for you," said
Millard, laughing as he got up and threw his cigarette into the grate.
"I don't like to interrupt your lecture, but it's eleven o'clock, and
I'm going home. Good-night."

Philip sat there alone and listened to the rain against the windows, and
smoked until his cigar went out. The mere turning of things over in his
mind, and tacking witty labels to them, afforded so much amusement that
inactivity and revery were his favorite indulgences.

Mrs. Hilbrough gave a good deal of thought to her dinner on the next
evening after the conversation between Philip Gouverneur and Millard. To
have it elegant, and yet not to appear vulgar by making too much fuss
over a dinner _en famille_, taxed her thought and taste. Half an hour
before dinner she met her husband with a perturbed face.

"It's too bad that Phillida Callender should have come this evening.
That's just the way with an indefinite invitation. Poor girl, I've been
asking her to come any evening, and now she has hit on the only one in
the year