raint than the eldest Miss Morton. She gazed at
the beamed ceiling, the high wainscoting, the stenciled walls, the
frescoes upon the panels, framed by the beams, the wide sideboard, the
glittering glass and the plated silver service, and if her eyes had not
been so beautiful they would have betrayed her wonder and admiration. As
it was, they showed an ecstasy of delight that made them shine and when
Henry Fenn saw them he looked at Mr. Brotherton, and Mr. Brotherton
looked at Mr. Fenn, and the moon in Mr. Brotherton's face beamed a
lively approval. Moreover the cigar salesman from Leavenworth and a
hardware drummer from St. Louis and a dry-goods salesman from Chicago
and a travelling auditor for the Midland saw Margaret's eyes and they
too looked at one another and gave their unqualified approval. In other
years--in later years--when she was at Bertolini's Grand Palace in
Naples or in some of the other Grand Palaces of other effete and
luxurious capitals of Europe, Margaret used to think of that first meal
at the Palace house in Harvey and wonder what in the world really did
become of the dozen fried oysters that she so innocently ordered. She
could see them looming up, a great pyramid of brown batter, garnished
with cress, and she knew that she had blundered. But she did not see the
wink that Mr. Brotherton gave Mr. Fenn nor the glare that Mr. Fenn gave
Mr. Brotherton; so she faced it out and whether she ate them or left
them, she never could recall.

But it was a glorious occasion in spite of the fried oysters. What
though the tiles of the floor of the Palace were cracked; what though
the curtains sagged, and the furniture was shabby, and the walls were
faded and dingy; what though the great beams in the dining-room were
dirty and the carpets in the halls bedraggled, and the onyx gapping in
great cracks upon the warped walls of the office; what though the paint
had faded and the varnish cracked all over the house! To Margaret Mueller
and also to the eldest Miss Morton, who only managed to breathe below
her locket when they were under the stars, it was a dream of marble
halls, and the frowsy Freddie Kollander and the other waiter who brought
in the food on thick, cracked oblong dishes were vassals and serfs by
their sides.

When they started up Sixth Avenue, the eldest Miss Morton was trying to
think of everything that had happened to tell the younger Misses Morton,
Martha and Ruth--what they ate and what Miss Mueller