Nancy’s heart was beating heavily when she woke on the memorable morning of the day that was to inaugurate the activities of Outside Inn. A confused dream of her Uncle Elijah in tatters on a park bench, which was instantly metamorphosed into one of the rustic seats she had arranged against the wall along the side of some of the bigger tables in the marble worker’s court, was ostensibly the cause of the disturbance in her cardiac region. She had, it seemed, in the interminable tangle of nightmare, given Molly and Dolly and the Alma Tadema girl instructions to throw out the unwelcome guest, and she was standing by with Michael, who was assuring her that the big blonde was “certain a grand bouncer,” when she was smitten with a sickening dream-panic at her own ingratitude. “He has given me everything he had in the world, poor old man,” she said to herself, and approached him remorsefully; but when she looked at him again 34 she saw that he had the face and figure of a young stranger, and that the garments that had seemed to her to be streaming and unsightly rags, were merely the picturesque habiliments of a young artist, apparently newly translated from the Boulevard Montparnasse. At the sight of the stranger a heart-sinking terror seemed to take possession of her, and so, quaking and quavering in mortal intimidation,—she woke up.

She laughed at herself as she brushed the sleep out of her eyes, and drew the gradual long breaths that soothed the physical agitation that still beset her.

“I’m scared,” she said, “I’m as excited and nervous as a youngster on circus day.—Oh! I’m glad the sun shines.”

Nancy lived in a little apartment of her own in that hinterland of what is now down-town New York, between the Rialto and its more conventional prototype, Society,—that is, she lived east of Broadway on a cross-street in the forties. The maid who took care of her had been in her aunt’s employ for years, and had seen Nancy grow from her rather spoiled babyhood to a hoydenish childhood, and so on to 35 soft-eyed, vibrant maturity. She was the only person who tyrannized over Nancy. She brought her a cup of steaming hot water with a pinch of soda in it, now.

“You were moaning and groaning in your sleep,” she said, in the strident accents of her New England birthplace, “so you’ll have to drink this before I give you a living thing for your breakfast.”

“I will, Hitty,” Nancy said, “and thank you kindly. Now I know you’ve been making pop-overs, and are afraid they will disagree with me. I’m glad—for I need the moral effect of them.”

“I dunno whether pop-overs is so moral, or so immoral if it comes to that. I notice it’s always the folks that ain’t had much to do with morals one way or the other that’s so almighty glib about them.”

“There’s a good deal in what you say, Hitty. If I had time I would go into the matter with you, but this is my busy day.” Nancy sat up in bed, and began sipping her hot water obediently. She looked very childlike in her straight cut, embroidered night-gown, with a long chestnut pig-tail over either shoulder. “I 36 feel as if I were going to be married, or—or something. I’m so excited.”

“I guess you’d be a good sight more excited if you was going to be married”—Hitty was a widow of twenty-five years’ standing—“and according to my way of thinking ’twould be a good deal more suitable,” she added darkly. “I don’t take much stock in this hotel business. In my day there warn’t no such newfangled foolishness for a girl to take up with instead o’ getting married and settled down. When I was your age I was working on my second set o’ baby clothes.”

“Don’t scold, Hitty,” Nancy coaxed. “I could make perfectly good baby clothes if I needed to. Don’t you think I’ll be of more use in the world serving nourishing food to hordes of hungry men and women than making baby clothes for one hypothetical baby?”

“I dunno about the hypothetical part,” Hitty said, folding back the counterpane, inexorably. “What I do know is that a girl that’s getting to be an old girl—like you—past twenty-five—ought to be bestirring herself to look for a life pardner if she don’t see any hanging around that suits her, instead of opening up a hotel for 37 a passel of perfect strangers. If ever I saw a woman spoiling for something of her own to fuss over—”

“If ever there was a woman who had something of her own to fuss over,” Nancy cried ecstatically, “I’m that woman to-day, Hitty. You’re a professional Puritan, and you don’t understand the broader aspects of the maternal instinct.” She sprang out of bed, and tucked her bare pink toes into the fur bordered blue mules that peeped from under the bed, and slipped into the wadded blue silk bathrobe that lay on the chair beside her. “Is my bath drawn, Hitty?”

“Your bath is drawed,” Hitty acknowledged sourly, “and your breakfast will be on the table in half an hour by the clock.”

“I suppose I must require that corrective New England influence,” Nancy said to herself, as she tried the temperature of her bath and found it frigid, “just as some people need acid in their diet. If my mother were alive, I wonder what she would have said to me this morning.”

Nancy spent a long day directing, planning, and arranging for the great event of the evening, 38 the first dinner served to the public at Outside Inn.

From the basement kitchen to the ground-floor serving-room in the rear, space cunningly coaxed from the reluctant marble worker, the mechanism of Nancy’s equipment was as perfect as lavish expenditure and scientific management could make it. The kitchen gleamed with copper and granite ware; huge pots for soup and vegetables, mammoth double boilers of white enamel,—Nancy was firm in her conviction that rice and cereal could be cooked in nothing but white enamel,—rows upon rows of shelves methodically set with containers and casseroles and odd-shaped metal serving-dishes, as well as the ubiquitous blue and rose-color chinaware presenting its gay surface from every available bit of space.

Presiding over the hooded ranges, two of gas and one coal for toasting and broiling, there was to be a huge Franco-American man-cook, discovered in one of the Fifth Avenue pastry shops in the course of Nancy’s indefatigable tours of exploration, who was the son of a French chef and a Virginian mother, and could express himself in the culinary art of either 39 his father’s or his mother’s nativity. His staff of helpers and dishwashers had been chosen by himself, with what Nancy considered most felicitous results, while her own galaxy of waitresses, who operated the service kitchen up-stairs, proved themselves to a woman almost unbelievably superior and efficient.

The courtyard itself was a brave spectacle in its final aspect of background for the detail and paraphernalia of polite dining. The more unself-conscious of the statues, the nymphs and nereids and Venuses, she managed either to relegate to the storehouse within, or to add a few cunningly draped vines to the nonchalance of their effect, while the gargoyles and Roman columns and some of the least ambitious of the fountain-models she was able to adapt delightfully to her outrageous ideal of arrangement. Dick had denuded several smart florist shops to furnish her with field flowers enough to develop her decorative scheme, which included strangely the stringing of half a dozen huge Chinese lanterns that even in the daylight took on a meteoric light and glow.

The night was clear and soft, and Fifth Avenue, ingratiatingly swept and garnished, 40 stretched its wake of summer allure before the never unappreciative eyes of Billy and Caroline, and Betty and Dick respectively, who had met at the Waldorf by appointment, and were now making their way, thus ceremoniously and in company, to the formal opening dinner of Nancy’s Inn.

Two nondescript Pagan gentlemen of Titanesque proportions had joined the watch of the conventional leonine twins, and the big gate now stood hospitably open, over it swinging the new sign in gallant crimson and white, that announced to all the world that Outside Inn was even at that moment, at its most punctilious service.

Molly and Dolly, in the prescribed blue chambray, their cheeks several shades pinker than their embellishment of pink ribbon, and panting with ill-suppressed excitement, rushed forward to greet the four and ushered them solemnly to their places,—the gala table in the center of the court, set with a profusion of fleur de lis, with pink ribbon trainers. Thanks to Dick’s carefully manipulated advertising campaign and personal efforts among his friends and business associates, they were 41 not by any means the first arrivals. Half a dozen laughing groups were distributed about the round tables in the center space, while several tÊte-À-tÊte couples were confidentially ensconced in corners and at cozy tables for two, craftily sheltered by some of the most imposing of the marble figures and columns.

“It seems like a real restaurant,” Caroline said wonderingly.

“What did you think it would seem like?” Betty asked argumentatively. “Just because Nancy is the best friend you have in the world, and you’re familiar with her in pig-tails and a dressing-gown doesn’t argue that she is incapable of managing an undertaking like this as well as if she were a perfect stranger.”

“I don’t suppose it does,” Caroline mused, “but someway I’d feel easier about a perfect stranger investing her last cent in such a venture. I don’t see how she can possibly make it pay, and I don’t feel as if I could ever have a comfortable moment again until I knew whether she could or not.—What are you looking so guilty about, Billy?”

“I was regretting your uncomfortable moments, Caroline,” Billy said, “and wishing it 42 were in my power to do away with them, but it isn’t. I was also musing sadly, but quite irrelevantly, on the tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.”

“Are you deceiving Caroline in some way?” Dick inquired.

“No, he isn’t,” Caroline answered for him, “though he has full permission to if he wants.”

“The time may come when he will avail himself of that permission,” Betty said; “you ought to be careful how you tempt Fate, Caroline.”

“She ought to be,” Billy groaned, “but the fact is that I am not one of the things she is superstitious about. Pipe the dame at the corner table with the lorgnette. Classy, isn’t she?”

“Friend of my aunt’s,” Dick said, acknowledging the lady’s salute.

“And the Belasco adventuress in the corner.”

“My stenographer,” Dick explained, bowing again.

“I’ve got a bunch of men coming,” Billy said; “if they put the place on the bum you’ve got to help me bounce them, Dick.”

“Up-stairs in the service kitchen,” Betty was 43 explaining to Caroline, “they keep all the dishes that don’t have to be heated for serving, also the silver and daily linen supply. When we seat ourselves at a table like this, the waitress to whom it is assigned goes in and gets a basket of bread—I think it’s a pretty idea to serve the bread in baskets, don’t you?—and whatever silver is necessary, and a bottle of water. When she places those things she asks us what our choice of a meat course is,—there is a choice except on chicken night—and gives that order in the kitchen when she goes to get our soup.”

“Who serves the things,—puts the meat on the plates, and dishes up the vegetables?”

“The cook—Nancy won’t let me call him the chef—because she is going to make a specialty of the southern element of his education. He has a serving-table by his range and he cuts up the meat and fowl, and dishes up the vegetables. In a bigger establishment he would have a helper to do that.”

“Why can’t Michael help him?” Dick asked.

“Michael calls him the Haythan Shinee. He is rather a glossy man, you know, and he says when the time comes for him, Michael, to dress 44 like a street cleaner and pilot a gravy boat, he’ll let us know.”

“Respect for his superiors is not one of Michael’s most salient characteristics,” Dick twinkled. “Nancy and I have a scheme for making a match between him and Hitty.”

“Here’s the soup,” Betty announced. “Nancy’s idea is to have everything perfectly simple, and—and—”

“Simply perfect,” Billy assisted her.

“Isn’t she going to eat with us?” Dick asked.

“She can’t. She’s busy getting it going just at present. She may appear later.”

“Somebody’s got to direct this pageant, old top,” Billy reminded him.

“The soup is perfect,” Caroline said seriously. “It is simple—with that deceptive simplicity of a Paris morning frock.”

“French home cooking is all like that,” Dick said. “I like purÉe of forget-me-nots!”

“Molly or Dolly, I can’t tell the difference between you,” Billy said, “extend our compliments to Miss Martin, and tell her that this course is a triumph.”

“Wait till you see the roast, sir.”

“It’s the very best sirloin,” Dick announced 45 at the first mouthful, “and these assorted vegetables all cut down to the same size are as pretty as they are good, as one says of virtuous innocence.”

“This variety of asparagus is expensive,” Caroline said; “she can’t do things like this at seventy-five cents a head. She’ll ruin herself.”

“I don’t see how she can,” Dick said thoughtfully, “with the price of foodstuffs soaring sky-high.”

“I never for a moment expected it to pay,” Betty said, “but think of the run she will have for her money, and the experience we’ll get out of it.”

“You’re in it for the romance there is in it, Betty. I must confess it isn’t altogether my idea of a good time,” Caroline said.

“I know, you would go in for military training for women, and that sort of thing. There’s a woman over there asking for more olives, and she’s eaten a plate full of them already.”

“They’re as big as hen’s eggs anyhow,” Caroline groaned, “and almost as extravagant. I don’t see how Nancy’ll go through the first month at this rate. There she comes now. Doesn’t she look nice in that color of green?”

“How do you like my party?” Nancy asked, slipping into the empty chair between Dick and Billy; “isn’t the food good and nourishing, and aren’t there a lot of nice-looking people here?”

“Very much, and it is, and there are,” Dick answered with affectionate eyes on her.

“The salad is alligator pear served in half sections, with French dressing,” she said dreamily. “I’m too happy to eat, but I’ll have some with you. Look at them all, don’t they look relaxed and soothed and refreshed? Every individual has a perfectly balanced ration of the most superlatively good quality, slowly beginning to assimilate within him.”

“I don’t see many respectable working girls,” Billy said.

“There are though,—from the different shops and offices on the avenue. There is a contingent from the Columbia summer school coming to-morrow evening. This group coming in now is newspaper people.”

“Who’s the fellow sitting over in the corner with that Vie de BohÊme hat? He looks familiar, but I can’t seem to place him.”

“The man in black with the mustache?” Dick 47 asked. “He’s an artist, pretty well known. That impressionistic chap—I can’t think of his name—that had that exhibition at the Palsifer galleries.”

“Does he sell?” Caroline asked.

“No, they say he’s awfully poor, refuses to paint down to the public taste. What the deuce is his name—oh! I know, Collier Pratt—do you know him, Nancy? Lived in Paris always till the war. He’ll appreciate Ritz cooking at Riggs’ prices if anybody will.”

Nancy looked fixedly at the small side-table where the stranger had just placed himself as if he were etched upon the whiteness of the wall behind him. He sat erect and brooding,—his dark, rather melancholy eyes staring straight ahead, and a slight frown wrinkling his really fine forehead. He wore an Inverness cape slung over one shoulder.

“Looks like one of Rembrandt’s portraits of himself,” Caroline suggested.

“He looks like a brigand,” Betty said. “Nancy’s struck dumb with the privilege of adding fuel to a flame of genius like that. Wake up and eat your peach Melba, Nancy.”

Nancy started, and took perfunctorily the spoon that Molly was holding out to her, which she forgot to lift to her lips even after it was freighted with its first delicious mouthful.

“I dreamed about that man,” she said.