NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS.
Romeo and Juliet; ii.—4.

Mrs. Fenton's wedding reception was largely attended. However strongly the artist might savor of Bohemianism, his wife was connected with certain prominent Philistines, and he had exhibited a most remarkable readiness to have them present in force.

"Into the camp of Philistia itself," muttered Rangely to Bently, as they elbowed their way through the crowd. "By the great horn spoon, if there isn't Peter Calvin! Arthur calls him the Great Boston Art Greek. That ever I should live to see the humbug under Fenton's roof-tree!"

"Pshaw!" returned Bently with an oath. "What a set of rubbishy old fobs and dowagers there is here anyway. Is this the kind of people Fenton means to know?"

"Means to know," echoed Rangely. "He's got to go down on his marrow bones to get them to consent to know him. They patronize art, and that means that they snub artists."

"Humph!" exclaimed Bently. "Is he sycophant enough to do that?"

"That's as you look at it. His wife probably decides the matter for him. She very naturally likes to know what she would call 'nice people.' How those women chatter! I wonder what they find to talk about."

"Not necessarily any thing. They always talk all the same whether they've any thing to say or not."

"How much of life is wasted in enduring people for whom one does not care," philosophized Rangely, looking over the throng which filled to overflowing the Fentons' somewhat limited rooms. "Ah! There is Dr. Ashton. How do you do, Doctor?"

"As well as could be expected," the Doctor answered, "in this antiquated assembly."

"Oh, Boston is only an antiquarian society," laughed Rangely, "and these old tabbies are all honorary members. By Jove, though, there are some awfully pretty girls here."

"I've observed that Boston girls are apt to be pretty when they give their minds to it," remarked Bently. "Not when they wander round with Homer under one arm and Virgil under the other and dyspepsia in the stomach, but when they are deliberately frivolous."

The throng separated them at this moment, and Dr. Ashton went in search of host and hostess. Arthur caught sight of his tall figure, and made a sign at once of recognition and summons. Struggling between a young Episcopal clergyman and a corpulent old lady, Dr. Ashton made his way with difficulty to the spot where his friend was standing.

"You are the most married man I know, Arthur," was his greeting. "Brigham Young wasn't a circumstance. I have been half an hour crossing the room."

"Dr. Ashton, Edith; my wife, Will," was the only reply Fenton made, unless one could interpret the quizzical glance he bestowed upon his friend.

"I feel already acquainted with you," was Mrs. Fenton's remark, "I have heard of you so often. My husband has spoken to me so much of his friends that it is hard for me to realize that I do not know them myself."

"You have been very little in Boston, I believe," Dr. Ashton said, looking at her in a sudden surprise at remembering that he had seen her face before.

"Very little," replied she, "I have been abroad a great part of my life and—"

New claims upon her attention ended the conversation with that charming abruptness characteristic of such an occasion, and the Doctor was left to elbow his way out of the crush, with the sense of having done all that would be required of him. He found a corner where he could watch the hostess and fell to wondering whether Mrs. Fenton in her turn remembered their previous meeting.

Edith Fenton was a slender, nun-like woman, too pale, with a smile of wonderful attractiveness. "A woman to wear lilies," was the way Grant Herman put it afterward; a remark which conveyed well the purity of her face. Her ease of manner showed familiarity with the conventionalities of life, yet in some vague way she seemed removed from the people by whom she was to-day surrounded.

"She has been brought up in the old narrow ways," Dr. Ashton reflected, "but there are great possibilities about her. She'll either be the making of Fenton or send him to the dogs. She will scarcely find much room in her house for many of his former friends, I fancy."

He stood watching the people and amusing himself with cynical speculations until he saw Grant Herman's great figure among the guests. He knew him but slightly and looked at him with an indifference which a couple of hours later he regretted. Herman cared little for the formalities of the occasion, and very likely might have gone away without even being presented to the hostess had not Fred Rangely taken him in charge and brought him safely through that ceremony. Now the sculptor was looking for Mrs. Greyson, of whom he soon caught sight, when he began making his way towards her. She however perceived him, and with the feeling that she could not bear to meet him in public just at this time, she evaded him by slipping into the window where her husband was ensconced.

"Take me out of this, please," she said, "I am tired."

He gave her his arm without speaking, and together they made their way from the room.

"I want to talk to you," he remarked easily. "Mayn't I walk home with you?"

When she was ready they went together out into the starlit streets. Neither spoke at first, each carrying on a train of thought to which the other could have no adequate clew.

"Who is Arthur's wife?" Dr. Ashton asked at length. "I know she was a Miss Caldwell, that she came from Providence, and that she has been an orphan so short a time that they had a perfectly quiet wedding; but that is the extent of my knowledge. Is she an artist?"

"An amateur," answered Helen. "She studied in Paris. He met her there. She is a relative, I forget just how far or near, of Peter Calvin. She seems to me an icicle. Think of Arthur's marrying a religieuse!"

"What is his game, I wonder," said her companion thoughtfully. "Do you know when she was in Paris? Was it when we were there."

"Let me see," Helen responded, with a mental calculation. "Yes; she must have been there the last year we were. Why? Did you ever meet her?"

"Perhaps," was the careless reply.

They reached Helen's door as he spoke.

"Come in," she said. "Fortunately I can make you a salad. It is a long time since we had a petit souper together. I have, too, something to say to you."

He followed her to the pretty parlor, and sat idly chatting while she made her preparations for the supper.