It was about the time of Helen's shopping expedition that Braine began to present certain select gentlemen of his acquaintance to Helen in their private parlor. Their visits were promptly followed by attentions that surprised her not a little. Their wives, sisters, and daughters journeyed from Newport, Richfield and Long Branch to call upon her, and, as Gladys Van Duyn said, when she called with her fiancÉ—young Grayson—"to snatch her as a brand from the burning of a scorching July." By this, Gladys merely meant that she had come for the purpose of taking possession of Helen, and carrying her bodily out of town "to where you can get your breath, dear, and see civilized people again."

Gladys had come reluctantly, and only because old Van Duyn had given her orders to that effect by telegraph. He had told her that Helen was beautiful, accomplished and fascinating, by way of softening the command to his daughter, though he wrote and sent the telegram half an hour before he was presented to the woman whom he thus confidently commended.

Gladys was not much given to trusting her father's judgment of women, or his accuracy of statement, where he had an object in view, and so that part of the dispatch she counted as so many superfluous words, paid for without occasion; but she understood clearly enough that her papa, for some reason connected with business—all his reasons centred in business—meant her to make as much as possible of Helen Braine, and so she arrived in the city fully prepared to pretend a great liking for the wild Westerner with big feet, whom she expected to find there.

Perhaps the agreeable surprise helped, but, whatever the cause, Gladys Van Duyn fell in love with Helen at first sight, and went rejoicingly back to Dorp House, the family place on the Sound, where the Van Duyns were accustomed to entertain their friends by platoons, and make a revel of the summer.

Gladys was a prudent young women, whose twenty summers had not been misspent; so, when she saw Helen and arranged to have her for a guest during an indefinite period, she decided that Grayson should put his yacht out of commission immediately, and rest himself with a little stay in Switzerland. Grayson accepted the arrangement, under the impression that he had been eagerly contemplating something of the sort for months, and his departure was made so promptly that the only thought he had time to give to Helen was that she was a "dooced fine woman, don't you know."

Braine remained in the city during the day, but joined Helen in the evening at the sumptuous Van Duyn summer place.

Helen was puzzled to understand it all, and in her bewilderment she questioned Edgar a little as to the cause of her sudden finding of favor in the eyes of people who had known nothing of her till then, and that, too, in a society which is not much given to looking beyond its own borders for people to "take up."

Braine laughed and said: "You are much too modest, Helen. You never did appreciate your own charms," and Helen, upon thinking the matter over, found a sufficient explanation in the thought that nobody could possibly come in contact with her Edgar without recognizing his superiority of mind and character, and wanting to make him an intimate. "These men have met him down town," she reflected, "and have been charmed with him, of course. In order to get as close to him as possible, they have taken up poor me. Well, that places a duty on me. I must acquit myself as well as I can, for dear Ed's sake."

And how she did acquit herself!

Gladys Van Duyn wrote rapturous reams about her new friend to all her old friends at Newport and elsewhere, and in angular, up and down characters, which allowed but three words to the line, and five lines to the page, sang Helen's praises in so many keys that only its scattered condition in summer cantonments saved the feminine part of New York society from panic lest the new star should elect to pass the winter in the metropolitan firmament.

Gladys encouraged confidence and order somewhat by assuring her friends, and especially her enemies, to whom, of course she sent her longest and most affectionate epistles, that Helen was "awfully much married to the dearest fellow in the world, and hasn't a notion of flirting in her."

In the mean time, Helen confided her emotions and experiences mainly to her diary, though her writing in that literary work varied considerably in frequency and fulness according to her moods and the demands upon her time.

[From Helen's Diary.]

July, 18—. This has been a very delightful day. I must record its happenings while Edgar is out. There is no moment that can be spared to record anything when he is here.

This morning I again went shopping. There is something delightful in being able to walk into a shop with the assurance that you are going to buy something. I do not mean to be extravagant. I seem to have regained my mental equilibrium to some extent, and am able to select judiciously what I want; and besides it would be something of an effort to me, I think, to be extravagant. I have had to be economical so long, and extravagance seems vulgar. There is no pleasure in having more things than one wants, and no delicate mind can rejoice in spending money merely for the sake of spending. In fact, the idea that I need have nothing to do with that part of the matter multiplies the enjoyment of the indulgence a hundredfold.

I have selected some charming things, and my gowns will be very beautiful. They have enabled me to understand myself better. They interpret my points, as it were, and I am now capable of making telling suggestions. I have decided to have nothing fashionable. Everything shall illustrate style, not fashion. There is something intolerable in the thought that you are wearing your clothes like a manikin; to walk in the streets and be conscious of a Vanderbilt on one side, with clothing far richer than you have on, which you have tried to copy, as well as limited means will enable you; and on the other side, a shop girl, and behind her, a washerwoman, who are reflections of your fashion, but falling as far short of you as you do of the woman whose purse is on the Vanderbiltean scale; to know that there is this eternal similarity to be seen among the entire multitudes!

I have decided that fashion is intolerable, and style indispensable. I have decided my own style. I shall not change it. It could not be improved for me, and so there is no justification for a change. I think a woman's style should be illustrative of her mind. Of course, if she has no mind of her own, then one does not expect her to have a style of her own. I have a mind of my own.

Edgar says we are to remain here six weeks longer, and then return to Thebes for a little time. While every moment here is one of happiness, I cannot help a little longing for the cottage, as we had planned it. I believe I would even have foregone all these charming new things for it. I do not have Edgar entirely to myself, but after all, I experience such a delight after waiting a time for him to come, that it may be an advantage.

He seems to regard me with wonder, amazement almost. Last night, he looked at me for a long time and finally said:

"Honor is well lost for you."

It made me shiver a little to hear him speak so, and I put my hand over his mouth, but at the same time it gave me a thrill of happiness—as it would even had he said, "I could commit murder for you," for nothing could express his love as that did.

If he loves me better than honor, I know how well that is. Is not honor dearer to Edgar Braine than his life? It is strange how women can even love wickedness—when they are the cause of it.

I think I shall never be able fully to enjoy anything because of my astonishment. Edgar says every little while, with my face between his hands: "You astonished child, how I love you!"

There is nothing in heaven above nor on this earth so wonderful and glorious as married life. Sometimes I do not know what I say or do. I am seized with a sudden ecstasy. At these times I find myself wondering if I have done or said anything that Edgar might not approve. I sometimes fear that I may not be quite womanly. I do not know why, but I feel so, and when I tried to explain it, he held me away from him and smiled a little with his eyes, and said in his dearest voice—"Yes, quite womanly," and then he drew me to him and said: "Whatever you say or do I am sure to approve. Whatever you say or do is your right," and then I went off into an ecstasy right then, and forgot again what I said or did, and so I was very glad that he approved, and that it was very womanly and right.