refined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in
America for a restful sojourn during the heat of mid-summer.

On the third day of Madame Beaumont's residence in the hotel a young
man entered and registered himself as a guest. His clothing--to
speak of his points in approved order--was quietly in the mode;
his features good and regular; his expression that of a poised and
sophisticated man of the world. He informed the clerk that he would
remain three or four days, inquired concerning the sailing of
European steamships, and sank into the blissful inanition of the
nonpareil hotel with the contented air of a traveller in his favorite
inn.

The young man--not to question the veracity of the register--was
Harold Farrington. He drifted into the exclusive and calm current of
life in the Lotus so tactfully and silently that not a ripple alarmed
his fellow-seekers after rest. He ate in the Lotus and of its
patronym, and was lulled into blissful peace with the other fortunate
mariners. In one day he acquired his table and his waiter and the
fear lest the panting chasers after repose that kept Broadway warm
should pounce upon and destroy this contiguous but covert haven.

After dinner on the next day after the arrival of Harold Farrington
Madame Beaumont dropped her handkerchief in passing out. Mr.
Farrington recovered and returned it without the effusiveness of a
seeker after acquaintance.

Perhaps there was a mystic freemasonry between the discriminating
guests of the Lotus. Perhaps they were drawn one to another by the
fact of their common good fortune in discovering the acme of summer
resorts in a Broadway hotel. Words delicate in courtesy and tentative
in departure from formality passed between the two. And, as if in the
expedient atmosphere of a real summer resort, an acquaintance grew,
flowered and fructified on the spot as does the mystic plant of the
conjuror. For a few moments they stood on a balcony upon which the
corridor ended, and tossed the feathery ball of conversation.

"One tires of the old resorts," said Madame Beaumont, with a faint
but sweet smile. "What is the use to fly to the mountains or the
seashore to escape noise and dust when the very people that make both
follow us there?"

"Even on the ocean," remarked Farrington, sadly, "the Philistines be
upon you. The most exclusive steamers are getting to be scarcely more
than ferry boats. Heaven help us when the summer resorter discovers