trifle surprised when I found this remarkable Mr. Darcy was our old
_bete noir_, Jack. Is he still in the mill, I wonder?"

"Apply to papa," laughed Irene.

"I don't believe papa could tell you the names of five workmen. As if he
troubled his head about that!"

"Sylvie is a nice little thing," remarked Fred patronizingly.

"I have no patience with her!" declared Mrs. Eastman. "As if it was not
necessary to have a line drawn somewhere! These people are all well
enough in their way: they are a necessary factor,"--picking the words
slowly to give them weight,--"and society establishes schools and homes
for them, trains teachers, provides employment: what more do they want?
A holiday now and then, of course; but why not go off by themselves as a
class, as the French do? This maudlin, morbid sympathy we Americans
give, spoils them. There is no keeping a servant in her place here.
Before you know it she studies and graduates at some school, teaches for
a while, goes abroad, and paints a picture, likely as not."

"Do not excite yourself, Gerty," and Fred pulled the ends of his silky
moustache.

"Well, it does annoy me to see a young girl like Sylvie Barry with no
better sense. Some day we shall have all these people rising up against
us, as they did in the French Revolution. I hate socialism and all that;
and I took good care to say to Mrs. Langton that Miss Barry had been
casting in her lot that day with a parcel of charity-children, and would
no doubt be too tired to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of her fete."

"I do not think Sylvie cares a penny!" said Irene with a touch of scorn,
anxious to return her sister's little stab. "I suppose she comforts
herself with the remembrance of her old blue blood, while Mr. Langton
made his fortune as an army-contractor."

"The Wylies were a very good family, Irene."

"If you are through eating, I will have a cigar," said the young man,
sauntering over to the bay-window.

What was there in this simple announcement of Sylvie having gone on a
charity-school picnic with Jack Darcy that should so rouse the
art-cultured pulses of Fred Lawrence? He had always liked Sylvie: her
freshness and piquancy stirred him like a whiff of mountain air,--a sure
sign that all healthy tone had not been cultivated out of him. It would
be very foolish for Sylvie to commit a _mesalliance_ with this young
man, who was no doubt good enough in his way,--a rather rough, awkward,
clownish fellow, with a co