acs to the arbor, and was
received with much reverence by Mrs. Wilde. She was a devout woman, and
Pliny Van Ness's name was in all the churches. They all sauntered back to
luncheon presently, Mrs. Wilde and Jane going before, while Mr. Van Ness
and the Russian princess walked more slowly through the woods, the
foreigner talking with animation and many gestures of American trees, while
the reformer listened benignly, ineffable calm in his smiling eyes.

"You followed me here purposely, Charlotte?" he said gently as she dilated
eloquently on our autumnal foliage.

"No. I did not know that you were in New York. But I meant to call upon you
soon. I have had no money from you since last August."

"Somebody, apparently, has filled my place as your banker," his placid eye
sweeping over the costly dress and be-diamonded fingers.

"What is that to you?" with a sudden shrill passion. "Once you would have
cared, Pliny. But that was years ago."

"Yes. Many years ago," buttoning his glove carefully. "A Russian princess,
eh?" after a short pause. "You are playing higher than ordinary, Charlotte.
You'll find it dangerous. I should advise you to keep to begging letters or
the role of medium or literary tramp."

"One class is as ready to be humbugged as the other. Who knows that better
than you?"

"In the religious and charitable work to which I have given up my life,"
deliberately measuring his words, "there are few impostors to be met. We
usually detect fraud, with God's help, and do not suffer from it,
therefore."

She stopped short, looking at him with blank amazement. Then walked on with
a shrug: "Absolutely! He expects me to believe in him! He believes in
himself! Can imposture go further than that?"

Mrs. Wilde, in the distance, caught sight of the two figures as they passed
through a belt of sunlight, and smiled contentedly.

"I am so glad to bring poor madame under direct religious influence! Mr.
Van Ness is speaking to her with great earnestness, I perceive."

The Princess Trebizoff scanned the great reformer as they walked,
appraising him, from the measured solemn step to his calm humility of eye.
She would have relished a passionate scene with him. After terrapin and
champagne, there was nothing she relished so much as emotion and tears. But
they had played up to each other so often! The tragedy in their relation
had grown terribly stale! You could not, she felt, make Hamlet's inky cloak
out of dyed cotton. But h