Perhaps the only city of considerable proportions in which the rigorous proprieties of a New England village exist side by side with the gorgeous trappings of metropolitanism is Chicago. Its growth has been so marvelous that in a single generation the simple garb of provincialism has been exchanged for the more imposing mantle of a great city. Streets and boulevards have spread forth like the countless antennÆ of some mighty monster; gigantic structures have arisen almost as at the touch of magic, and ten thousand lanky chimneys have begun to belch forth black and sooty smoke, all within the memory even of the middle-aged inhabitant. Fifty years ago Chicago was a frontier town; twenty years ago a fearful scourge laid her in ruins; to-day she stands among the first ten of the world's great cities. Countless forces have in a score of years heaped up a mighty metropolis, and, perhaps, it is not surprising to find almost buried beneath this gigantic pile the simple and pure society of the early days.

During all these rapid changes the older families have altered little. They have built more pretentious homes, they drive more modern equipages, they eat more elaborate dinners, but even these innovations have been reluctantly received, and the hearts of the old residents have remained untouched by fin de siÉcle looseness and cynicism. In no older city are the social lines more strictly drawn, and year after year the same faces appear at the select gatherings, unconscious of the rapid change about them. Of millionaires there are many, but the foundations of their fortunes were laid in the early days of pioneering, and if occasionally a Croesus of recent growth creeps partly in, the shoulders turned toward him are cold, and his golden key never quite unlocks the inner doors. Chicago has perhaps suffered unduly at the hands of cursory and captious critics, but its society should not be judged by a hastily written paragraph or the clanking chains of the parvenu's carriage. Whatever be its faults, and they are doubtless many, it is thoroughly American, and slow to accept the lax scepticism and hollow manners of the older world. It is still too young to be the home of art and letters, and still too sensible to breed idlers. Happy city, if its society could continue as it is, unaffected, progressive, and moral; but the naturalness of Chicago cannot endure forever; already Puritan simplicity has fought the first skirmish with bare-necked folly and been worsted. French dresses and English drags have come to stay; insincerity and disbelief will follow.

The best society is hard to define,—especially in America,—but by some indescribable process people are shaken up, and so sifted into cliques and circles that they become mysteriously classified and labeled without the scrutinizing care of a satin-coated Lord Chamberlain. When the inhabitants of Chicago were passed through the social sieve, the finest particles formed a little heap labeled "The Patricians." This was the set that gave the most exclusive subscription dances, and, though there were other organizations which might feel strong enough to compete with this select assembly, it was noticed that the name of no Patrician was ever found upon another list, and no outsider ever declined to become a Patrician subscriber. There is a classic story which says that when, after their victory at Salamis, the generals of the various Greek states voted the prizes for distinguished merit, each assigned the first place of excellence to himself, but they all concurred in giving their second votes to Themistocles. Were the Chicagoans called upon to vote for the most exclusive organization of their city, each would probably cast his first vote for the one of which he is a member, but the second votes would all be given to the "Patricians." It was an ancient organization, dating from before the fire, and its membership list had been sacredly guarded ever since. Simple and informal at first, it had gradually assumed pretentious proportions, until it had passed from a North Side hall, cold suppers, lemonade and nine o'clock, to the Hotel Mazarin, terrapin, brut champagne, and eleven o'clock. In the early days there had been three fiddlers and a man to call off, but now there was an orchestra, a Hungarian band and a cotillon: "O tempora, O mores!" "Imitatores, servum pecus."

Marion Sanderson was a patroness of the "Patricians," and to her efforts the innovations were, in a great measure, due. They had been coldly received at first, and when the changes culminated in champagne, some of the stricter members withdrew their names and refused permission to their daughters to attend, but the foundations of the Patricians had been too firmly laid to be shattered even by such defection.

Three evenings after the events of the last chapter the inviting French ball-room of the Hotel Mazarin was lighted for the first "Patricians'" dance of the season. The florist had arranged his last cluster, and the floor had received its last polishing; the dainty canary draperies were coquettishly caught up with garlands of flowers, while here and there slender palms cast their graceful shadows upon the shining floor, and white and gold woodwork peeped from behind smilax and roses. A row of waiting chairs around the room seemed to add to the stillness, which was broken only by the hollow, echoing steps of two managers who were taking a final glance at the preparations. Soon a jabbering of German, and the squeak of violins behind the gallery palms, announced the arrival of the orchestra, while down-stairs by the supper rooms the twang of a Hungarian cymballo proclaimed the presence of the Tzigan band. Chattering Frenchmen were scurrying about the tables putting on the finishing touches, and the usually suave and smirking maÎtre d'hÔtel was scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch glasses. "DÉpÊche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir À l'instant" he cried; but though an hour had passed since the time for which the guests were invited, the ball-room remained deserted.

Down-stairs a solitary woman sat quaking in the ladies' dressing-room, and her husband braved the patronizing glances of the servants in the hall. They were from a Western town, and both were wondering what nine o'clock on the invitation meant. For nearly another hour they sat there, and then the rustling of a satin dress announced the arrival of a patroness who had promised to come early to receive. Soon a few men straggled in, another patroness arrived, and finally a little knot of women who had collected in the dressing-room mustered sufficient courage to enter the great, empty ball-room. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, a couple started to dance, and a few others followed their example. The fashionable hour had arrived; men, maidens and matrons crowded in, the room became quickly filled with a talking, laughing multitude; brilliant colors and bright smiles dispelled the gloom, and a giddy whirling mass of tulle and cheviot announced that the ball had opened.

Marion Sanderson was among the late arrivals. She had been unusually long at her toilette, but the time had been profitably spent, for when she entered the room her perfectly fitting gown of yellow satin and old lace produced an envious murmur among the women. Marion looked well at any time, but she was especially attractive in evening dress, for the lights and excitement seemed to produce an extra glow of beauty which few failed to notice. When she came, it was at the close of a dance, and a knot of men quickly formed around her, but Duncan was not of the number. She had expected to find him looking for her, and when she saw him near her, talking to her enemy, Mrs. McSeeney, she felt an unpleasant tinge of jealousy. After the excitement her entrance created had subsided, he came slowly toward her.

"I believe I have to thank you, Mr. Grahame," she said, giving him her hand, "for these beautiful yellow roses."

"On the contrary, it is I who must thank you for carrying them," he replied. "Besides, they are typical of jealousy."

"Jealousy," repeated Marion in a wondering tone. "Were you ever jealous?"

"A lover is always jealous," Duncan replied. Then he added gently: "I am a lover."

"Then all the world must love you," she said laughingly.

"I wish it did, for you are in the world," he answered.

A glance of reproof was her only reply, for Walter Sedger came to claim a dance, and she had just time to promise the next but one to Duncan before she was whirled away into the gliding throng. Duncan's eyes followed her for a moment; she saw his glance and a slight tinge of color came into her cheek. In a moment she was lost amid the dancers. Mechanically she danced a waltz and a polka, scarcely noticing her partner's remarks, for in her heart she felt a strange apprehension that she could not understand. There was a fascination in Duncan's personality she dared not attempt to explain.

When the first strains of Duncan's dance began, he came to her immediately, and, without speaking, quietly took her hand and placed his arm gently about her waist; then, catching the time of the music, they glided away into a dreamy waltz. It was their first dance together, and as he guided her gracefully and easily through the whirling maze of waltzers, Marion felt that she had never really danced before. Silently they waltzed awhile, enjoying the delicious excitement of the movement, then he said softly: "I have never understood the power of the dance before, but to-night our steps, gliding together to this glorious music, seem to me like the love of two natures, who feel and act in perfect unison."

Marion looked up silently until her eyes met his glance; she grew icy cold, but she could feel the quick throb of each pulse beat. Duncan pressed her gently nearer, but she drew back and tossed her head forcibly away. She laughed a hollow little laugh at the fear in her heart, for here at least she was mistress of herself. Rhythmically their steps moved on to the enchanting music. Marion closed her eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts in her heart. In the darkness she seemed to be carried softly on through space, like some spirit borne away in the arms of dreamy happiness. Duncan drew her closer to his side; she felt a delicious sense of joy, such as she had never known before, and, almost dizzy, she glided on over the shining floor, her heart beating with wild, delightful pleasure. The music stopped. For a moment they danced on, but the dream had faded; she was back in the noisy, humming world of people.

Marion had arrived so late that people were already flocking toward the supper table. She had long before promised to take supper with Walter Sedger, who was to lead the cotillon; but when he appeared, she suggested that as Duncan was alone he had better join them. So the three wandered down-stairs and entered the supper-room. The weird Hungarian Czardas was being played by the Tzigans in the hallway, and it seemed to Marion that it did not harmonize with the clattering plates and the laughter. She had once heard that fantastic melody in Buda, and then it created strange sensations of unrest and aroused the wildest feelings of her nature. In her present state of mind she felt thankful for the noisy rattle of the supper-room.

The tables were placed in a large, oblong room, and were arranged for parties of four or six, but Marion, being a patroness, was conducted to a large, round table at the farther end, reserved for the managers and their friends. She hoped that the presence of other people would spare her the necessity of talking much, but at first she was obliged to manufacture conversation, in order to keep her two companions amused. Duncan made no attempt to conceal the fact that the presence of Sedger was distasteful to him, and he amused himself by delivering occasional satirical remarks upon the latter's conversation which did not tend to improve the relations between the two men. Accidentally, however, both Duncan and Sedger were drawn into the general talk of the table, and Marion was left to herself. She felt lonesome, in spite of the gaiety around her, and realized that there is no loneliness so deep as that which comes amid merriment one cannot join. She looked about at the pretty faces and the brilliant colors made brighter by the lights; she saw the sparkling eyes and glittering diamonds, she heard merry laughter mingling with the rattling dishes and scurrying feet, but all seemed hollow and far away. She knew that she had just been brought under the influence of an unknown power, and she was faintly endeavoring to collect her senses and understand herself. Almost unwarned she had felt impetuous love flash forth in her heart, and now, in a dazed sort of way, she was trying to bring her mind to act. She was impressionable and reckless, but not so reckless as quite to forget her position. One thought grew strongest in her mind; it was fear. She was brought back to her surroundings by a remark addressed to her by Mrs. McSeeney: "You look quite pale, my dear, are you ill?"

"Not in the least," replied Marion, smiling faintly, "but this room seems close. Don't you think so?"

"I had not noticed it," was the answer spoken equivocally.

The supper was somehow worried through. As they were leaving the table Walter Sedger said: "I have saved the seats of head couple for you, Mrs. Sanderson; if you will come with me, I will show them to you. I lead alone, but I hope you will permit me to take you out for an occasional extra turn."

"I shall be delighted," Marion replied. Sedger gave her his arm, and Duncan, glowering more than ever, was obliged to wander on behind.

The musicians' gallery did not project into the ball-room, but was supported by columns in the hall outside. Just under it an attractive nook had been arranged, with palms and foliage plants, a rug and a divan. The lights were kept low and the palms were so thickly placed as almost to conceal the people who might chance to sit there. At each side of this recess was a door leading into the ball-room, and as Marion and her two companions were passing through the one at the right, they met Florence Moreland and Roswell Sanderson coming out.

"I am looking for my fan, Mr. Grahame," said Florence, stopping. "Don't you want to help me search for it?"

"Of course I do, and I'll wager I find it," said Duncan, walking directly toward the nook just described.

"You need not express your disapproval of me so pointedly," called Florence, protestingly. "I assure you it is not in here," she continued, following him until they were both concealed by the palms.

"A thousand pardons for my blunder," replied Duncan. "I thought I saw you coming out of here after one of the dances with Dr. Maccanfrae."

"I see I must confess my guilt," answered Florence, smiling; "but I relied on the protection of his grey hairs."

"I gather you don't approve of this corner," replied Duncan. "At least," he continued, looking around, "you were not so indiscreet as to leave your fan here."

"I suppose the place has its uses," she answered laughingly, "at least the managers think so, if one is to judge by the care bestowed on its arrangement."

"If I were bold," Duncan said, as they passed out, "I would say that it is like a fire escape, only to be used on pressing occasions."

Florence frowned at this atrocious punning, and he added, meekly: "May I have permission to admire your gown?"

"I am surprised that you like it," she replied. "This is its second season."

"I think it is charming," he continued. "But might I inquire if it is ardent affection for each other which prompts you and Mrs. Sanderson to select the same color to-night?"

"It was not a case of affection, but quite an accident," Florence replied. "In fact, when Marion saw me coming down-stairs arrayed so like herself, she wanted to make me change my gown, but it was so late that I refused."

They reached the ball-room door, and there they met Roswell Sanderson with the lost fan, which he had found in the supper-room. Duncan left Florence with Marion's husband and went in search of his partner. He found Marion already in her place for the cotillon and took his seat beside her. A double row of chairs had been arranged around the room, and poor Walter Sedger was flying about trying to make people take their places, so that he might commence his first figure. The one occasion when all intelligence seems to desert the average mortal,—especially if he be a man,—is when he is called upon to dance in a cotillon, and already the leader's difficulties had commenced. When Sedger had succeeded in seating a group in one place, he would turn around and find that people whom he had fairly implored to take their places were wandering across the room, or that others, who were seated in the back row, were having angry controversies with people who had placed their chairs in front of them. All expected Sedger to find them seats, and all insisted upon being in the front row; as there were some eighty couples to dance, and only forty could sit in front, this, to an intelligent mind, would seem an impossible proposition; but not a single one of those one hundred and sixty people seemed to understand it. Finally poor Sedger conceived the brilliant idea of starting the music, and the people who were squabbling over places, fearing they might be left out altogether, scrambled recklessly after seats, and thus the floor was cleared. Sedger was now master of the situation, and soon he was leading a troup of sprawling men through a maze of pretty gowns, in the performance of the intricate evolutions of a cotillon figure.

Duncan, instead of favoring someone, had persuaded Marion to dance the figure through with him. The band played a fantastic polka, and, catching the exciting inspiration of the Hungarian strains, they glided fleetly over the slippery floor. It was no longer the dreamy waltz, but the wild abandon of rapid motion, and as they danced Marion seemed carried away by the exhilarating movement. On, on, they danced, until the music stopped; then Duncan led her quickly out of the ball-room to the nook under the musicians' gallery, where, breathless from the exercise, she sank down on the divan. Duncan, seating himself beside her, rested his arm upon one of the cushions, and leaned forward so that he could see her face. Her cheeks glowed from the exercise, and there, in the soft light, her large black eyes glistening with excitement, she seemed to Duncan the most glorious creature he had ever seen. Delighted he gazed until Marion raised her eyes and met his eager glance.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.

"To say good-by."

"What do you mean?" she said, with a frightened tone in her voice.

"I mean that I leave to-morrow. I have been called back to the East."

"Are you glad?" she asked sadly.

"Yes, I am glad," he replied softly; "glad to have known you, glad to feel that you exist."

Wild thoughts flashed impetuously through her mind. "Why?" she asked.

He leaned forward till his face was near hers, and she could see his grey eyes, now black in the dim light, almost next her own. He took her hand and held it; then he whispered passionately: "Because I love you."

"For the sake of both of us, don't say that," she said hoarsely, drawing back her hand.

"For the sake of both of us I will," he replied. "What is there to prevent our loving?"

"My husband," she said, and the words brought back fear to her heart.

"I thought you were a woman of the world," he replied scornfully. "Do you mean to tell me that you are afraid?"

"Yes," said Marion resolutely.

"Then you must drown your fear in love," he answered, drawing his arm about her shoulders.

"You must leave me," she pleaded, trying to release herself.

"Not until you say you love me," was his answer.

"That I do not hate you ought to tell you that; O, I can't say any more. Leave me, I entreat you."

"I will not leave you, my Marion," he replied impetuously. "I must have your love." And he leaned forward and kissed her. A dress rustled behind the palms. Duncan heard it and quickly released Marion, who darted away and ran toward the ball-room; and Duncan, glancing anxiously through the foliage, saw a crimson gown hurrying through the other door. "Confound my luck!" he muttered. "I thought I knew something about this sort of thing, but I was a fool to take such chances."

Inside the ball-room Marion found her husband, standing among a group of men, watching the dancing. "I am going home, Roswell," she said, taking his arm and drawing him away. "Find Florence, won't you?"

"Yes, dear," he replied. "Are you ill?" he added, thinking it unusual for his wife to leave so early.

"I feel tired, that is all. Tell Florence she can go home with Mrs. Smythe if she chooses."

Roswell Sanderson went in search of Florence and soon returned with her. He had given her Marion's message, but Florence did not care to remain, so she excused herself to her partner in the cotillon and hurried away with Roswell. "What is the matter?" she anxiously asked Marion.

"I feel a little faint and I think I will go home," was the answer. Florence thought Marion seemed agitated rather than faint. She wondered what had happened, but thinking it unwise to pursue the matter further, she walked on quietly beside Marion and her husband. On the stairs they met Duncan; Marion tried to avoid him, but he came toward her and said calmly: "I have been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Sanderson. Have you forgotten you have a partner in the cotillon?"

"No;" Marion replied. "But you must excuse me as I feel quite tired; I am going home."

"I feel cheated," answered Duncan; "the more so as I leave to-morrow and must say good-by, now." He put out his hand and Marion took it. She tried not to look at him, but an indefinable attraction compelled her to raise her eyes. "Good-by," he said, softly pressing her hand.

"Good-by," she answered. Then she quickly drew back her hand and turned away. As she descended the stairs she felt that he was still looking at her. She wanted to look back, but she closed her eyes and pressed closely to her husband's arm till they reached the cloak-room door. While she and Florence were putting on their wraps, she could hear the distant strains of music coming from the ball-room; they seemed to her like the last echo of the love which had flamed so brilliantly for a moment in her heart, and now must die and become a memory. The music stopped. "It is all over," she thought; then she hurried away with Florence and her husband down the great stairway to the street door. "Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," called a servant on the stairs. "Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," was echoed from the street. She heard a rumbling noise of wheels; then the street door opened, and she felt a blast of cold, refreshing air. "The carriage is here, ma'am," called her footman, and they passed out into the darkness. At the end of the awning-covered passage the carriage lamps burned dimly, and she could hear the restless champing of bits. They reached the carriage and took their places; the door was closed; the servant mounted the box, the carriage rolled away crunching the crisp snow under its wheels. Marion sank into a corner and tried to think. "I did my best," she said to herself again and again. "I did my best, but it was so hard." Over the snow-muffled stones the carriage rolled past massive structures, black and silent in the darkness. Huge, scowling ogres, they seemed to Marion, coldly frowning their displeasure. On through the darkened streets they went and over the river bridge; she could see the flickering street lamps faintly glistening on the ice, and she thought they were feeble hope rays shining through the darkness. Marion closed her eyes and listened to the wheels creaking through the snow. How long it was she did not know, but after a time she felt a sense of stillness. She opened her eyes. They were home.