he bon mots of her idol,
to discourse upon her astonishing degree of culture, to narrate how
people refused on occasion to believe that she was the wife of Anson
Merrill, even though she herself declared it--those old chestnuts of
the social world which must have had their origin in Egypt and Chaldea.
Mrs. Simms herself was of a nondescript type, not a real personage,
clever, good-looking, tasteful, a social climber. The two Simms
children (little girls) had been taught all the social graces of the
day--to pose, smirk, genuflect, and the like, to the immense delight of
their elders. The nurse in charge was in uniform, the governess was a
much put-upon person. Mrs. Simms had a high manner, eyes for those
above her only, a serene contempt for the commonplace world in which
she had to dwell.

During the first dinner at which she entertained the Cowperwoods Mrs.
Simms attempted to dig into Aileen's Philadelphia history, asking if
she knew the Arthur Leighs, the Trevor Drakes, Roberta Willing, or the
Martyn Walkers. Mrs. Simms did not know them herself, but she had
heard Mrs. Merrill speak of them, and that was enough of a handle
whereby to swing them. Aileen, quick on the defense, ready to lie
manfully on her own behalf, assured her that she had known them, as
indeed she had--very casually--and before the rumor which connected her
with Cowperwood had been voiced abroad. This pleased Mrs. Simms.

"I must tell Nellie," she said, referring thus familiarly to Mrs.
Merrill.

Aileen feared that if this sort of thing continued it would soon be all
over town that she had been a mistress before she had been a wife, that
she had been the unmentioned corespondent in the divorce suit, and that
Cowperwood had been in prison. Only his wealth and her beauty could
save her; and would they?

One night they had been to dinner at the Duane Kingslands', and Mrs.
Bradford Canda had asked her, in what seemed a very significant way,
whether she had ever met her friend Mrs. Schuyler Evans, of
Philadelphia. This frightened Aileen.

"Don't you suppose they must know, some of them, about us?" she asked
Cowperwood, on the way home.

"I suppose so," he replied, thoughtfully. "I'm sure I don't know. I
wouldn't worry about that if I were you. If you worry about it you'll
suggest it to them. I haven't made any secret of my term in prison in
Philadelphia, and I don't intend to. It wasn't a square deal, and they
had no right to put me the