The Emerson pick-up dinner party was a decided success.

Even Pendleton admitted it. As for Burgoyne he was quite enthusiastic—possibly because he sat on Miss Emerson's right. Pendleton was on her left. Lorraine had been taken by the hostess—she was not going to let such an opportunity escape her. Old Emerson was sandwiched between Mrs. Burleston and Mrs. Smithers, and was talking like mad of everything but what he should. His wife could, at intervals, catch portions of his conversation, and she made frantically discreet efforts to flag him, but with no result—either because of the numerous cocktails he had imbibed in the grill, or because he refused to understand. As it was, Mrs. Burleston and Mrs. Smithers, as well as the others near him, were convulsed with merriment as he rattled on, serenely indifferent to his spouse's signals and attempts to distract him.

"Now you see, my dear," he whispered confidentially, leaning over Mrs. Burleston, "it is this way: When me and Sally—Sally was my first wife—was married—we didn't have nary a red—nary a red. She done the cooking and housework, including the washing, and I tended bar for McDivit. You don't remember McDivit, I guess—course not. He was a fine man—a fine man! He kept the old Baroque House—now the Imperial. And I was such a good bartender and mixed 'em so well, only knocked down ten per cent., instead of twenty-five, like the other fellows, that one day he says to me, says he:

"'Bill, you're a good fellow—I've been a watchin' you and I think a heap of you. I'm goin' to set you up in business. What would you rather be?'

"'I think,' says I, 'I'd rather be a gentleman.'

"'A gentleman!' says he—and smiled sort of knowing like.

"'Yes, sir!' says I; 'a gentleman—one what makes his living skinning another gentleman—legitimately.'

"'You mean you want to be a lawyer?' says McDivit.

"'Not I,' says I. 'They skin only the leavings. I want to skin the big wad. I want to go into the promoting business—I want to sell something I haven't got to somebody what doesn't want it.'

"'Good!' says McDivit with a twinkle in his eye. 'I'll go you.'

"And he set me up—and I've been going ever since—accumulating. There's a heap of profit selling something you haven't got—though you have to be a bit nimble to keep within the law. But I've succeeded purty well. Later I got to buying something that some one else wanted before he knew he wanted it—and that's profitable—especially if he wants it bad or has to have it. Why this here Club—I worked it beautiful. It didn't know it wanted the new fifty acres, till after I knew it—and had bought it. That's how I came to be in the Club, you know—part consideration for the fifty acres. Oh, it's a great game! a great game when you know how to play it, and are lucky. I'm both. I'm worth a million and a quarter and I started with nothing—and I'm the same good fellow I was when I tended bar for Mr. McDivit. Success don't spoil Bill Emerson. No siree!" He paused a moment. "Sally, my first wife, you know, she died soon after I left McDivit, and when success came I married Maria—the present Mrs. Emerson, that is. She made a pretty good strike when she found yours truly, don't you think, my dears?" he ended, grinning broadly.

"I do, indeed, Mr. Emerson!" smiled Mrs. Burleston. "You are a find for any woman."

"So I have often told Maria—when we're exchanging compliments—like married people do, you know. I guess Burleston and you hand each other the same, hey? They don't mean nothin'—just hot air—that's pretty hot however when it first blows out!" he laughed.

"Poor old dad!" said Miss Emerson to Pendleton imperturbably. "He is telling the story of his life. Did you hear him?"

Pendleton shook his head.

"I was engaged otherwise," he replied, looking at her with a smile.

"Which is very good of you—but I'm not sensitive, I realize that every one knows what father is and was—it is not a secret that can be hid. He started with nothing, either socially or financially, and he has come up to where he is—wherever that is. I'm not ashamed of it, though I will admit I would rather have been born in, than have climbed in. But ours was an honest climb, so to speak. Society saw us climbing, and stood aside and permitted it. We bought our ladder, we bought the right to use it, and we bought our way up the wall and down again on the inside. He also bought my education and polish and helped me to make good. That is my duty—to make good. I've been aware of it for years—since I first began to make friends among the nice girls, indeed. And I'm trying to make good, Mr. Pendleton—I've been trying to make good ever since. It's the business of my life to make a social success, and, with father's fortune as an inheritance, to marry well.... You know it—every one knows it—so why dissemble? Moreover, it is a legitimate business for a woman, so why be ashamed?"

She said it in the most casual tones—as though she was commenting on the weather or the latest play. Why dissemble? Why be ashamed? Everyone knew it! There was something refreshing in her candor, in her frank appreciation of the situation, and in her acceptance of it as the immediate problem for her to solve, with but the one solution possible that would spell success. She understood that her entire education had been directed with that end in view, and if she did not attain it she would be a failure.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," Pendleton assured her.

"Nevertheless you are wondering why I talk this way to you?" she went on. "And I don't know why myself—unless it is my father in me. He has a way, at times, of becoming intimately personal concerning his affairs," with a bit of a smile.

"Your father is a good fellow," said Pendleton, seizing the opportunity to shift the conversation.

"Father is dear!" she returned; "a dear, unselfish man—with me, at least. He may set mother on edge by fracturing the conventions, but it never bothers me. He has the inherent right to fracture them—and he does it very naturally!" she laughed. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of him either."

"Good girl!" commented Pendleton. "You're not a snob—like the most of the new-rich."

"I try not to be, at all events."

"What do you try not to be, Miss Emerson?" Burgoyne asked, breaking into the talk.

"A snob!" she smiled.

Burgoyne raised his eyebrows.

"Every one is more or less a snob, Miss Emerson; don't you want to be in the fashion?"

"I don't like the fashion," she returned.

"Consider," he said. "Is there a man in this Club-house who doesn't think himself a little better than his fellows by reason of more money, more social position, more popularity, more athletic ability, more brains, more something?"

"I can't answer for the men!" she laughed; "but if you ask me as to the women, I'm afraid I'll have to plead guilty. We are all snobs, on that basis, Mr. Burgoyne. It's only a matter of degree."

"Everything is a matter of degree," Burgoyne answered, "from the powder on your face to a municipal councilman's venality."

"Is there any powder on my face?" she demanded.

"Altogether impersonal," he assured her.

"But is there?—I detest powder!"

"So does every man—if the women only could be made to believe it. If there is one thing that is disgusting, it is a white-washed face. Let them put it on if they must, but let them rub it off—all of it. A shiny nose isn't half as bad as a powder-smeared one."

"Mr. Burgoyne, I must know if there is any powder on my face," she repeated tragically, facing him.

He looked long and carefully—so long and so carefully, indeed, that she dropped her eyes, though she did not turn her head.

"No," he answered. "There isn't a single trace."

"Did it require so long to make sure?" she asked.

"I was looking——"

"Yes—I noticed you looking," she remarked.

"I was looking for—powder. If you think I might be mistaken, I will look again."

"You couldn't be mistaken—after such a critical and prolonged—scrutiny!" she laughed. "And it won't be necessary to look again, sir—just at present."

"Will the 'present' be very long?" he queried, with assumed gravity.

"I cannot tell—it will depend."

"Upon what?"

"Circumstances."

"Of what nature?"

"Of different natures—yours and mine."

"More especially yours, I presume?"

"No—yours, I should say," she replied.

"Why mine?"

"To give you something to guess."

"I'm a poor guesser," he protested.

"I thought as much!" she mocked. "It's a masculine failing, I—understand."

"Say rather it is a faculty distinctly feminine—and raised to the nth degree."

"What are you two talking about?" demanded Pendleton.

"I haven't the slightest idea!" Miss Emerson answered. "Have you, Mr. Burgoyne?"

"If I have, I can't find it."

"Who ever knows what they are talking about at a dinner party?" said Pendleton. "Moreover, who cares? It's all bubbles, usually, that burst the moment they are blown."

"Is it?" asked Miss Emerson, with a significant smile.

"Dinner talk I mean," explained Pendleton. "Occasionally we strike deeper—then it's something else than bubbles."

"How do you distinguish?" Burgoyne asked.

"Most people don't, my friend—hence the bubbles."

"Precisely—you're one of the don'ts," said Pendleton.

"Which being the case, let us change to something more entertaining than bubbles," Burgoyne retorted. "I'll take Miss Emerson, and you amuse yourself for a space with your left-hand opponent."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"What do you think of Miss Emerson?" Pendleton asked when, several hours later, he and Burgoyne sat smoking on the terrace.

"I should say she is a thoroughbred—if it were not for her parents. She has all the characteristics of the well-born—except that she isn't. It must be a sore trial to the girl always to have mother and father to contend against."

"Possibly she doesn't consider it," observed Pendleton. "Possibly she accepts the condition and makes the best of it. I've never noticed that she seemed to feel it in the least."

"Which makes her all the more thoroughbred," Burgoyne declared.

The other nodded. "Just so—and what is more, I've yet to hear her retail scandal or malicious gossip, criticise her friends or acquaintances, or question their motives. Pretty remarkable in a woman, Sheldon."

"Exceptional, indeed," Burgoyne agreed. "But it comports with her presence. She is an exceptional looking girl. Her tout ensemble is wonderfully attractive—to me, at least."

"You're not the only one to observe it, my friend, as I think I told you. Ask Devereux, if you doubt. He says every blithering idiot in the Club is hot foot after her—himself included. Are you going to get in the running also?"

"There appears to be too much competition—the pace is too fast for me. Why haven't you been in it yourself?"

"For the same reason—and one other: I'm too old," Pendleton chuckled amiably.

"Poor chap!" Burgoyne observed. "Who would ever have thought it to look at you!"

"Age is as one feels," said Pendleton. "I feel sixty—therefore I'm not chasing after the petticoats. I leave that for those younger in years and spirit. I am content to stand back and look on—to sniff the battle from afar, like the old war horse."

"Who always has another battle in him," rejoined Burgoyne. "However, I would be quite satisfied to have you look on were I a contestant. The Honorable Montague Pendleton is, I fancy, a dangerous rival for any woman's affections."

"It would seem so!" laughed Pendleton.

"I mean, if you should care to be a rival."

"Thanks, that is better—one likes to fancy himself the very devil with the women, even when he knows he isn't."

"What is Stephanie Lorraine going to do?" Burgoyne asked presently.

"You mean after this afternoon?" said Pendleton. "I do not know. I fancy she doesn't know either. The meeting with Lorraine was most unfortunate, if she sought reconciliation."

"Yes; but if she didn't, it doesn't matter in the least—aside from its giving the mob fresh food for talk."

"I didn't hear anything said at our table!" smiled Burgoyne.

"Hardly!" said Pendleton. "Mrs. Emerson chose to have the sensational guest in preference to the sensation. In deference to Lorraine and ourselves everyone refrained from mentioning what was uppermost in their minds. They have made up for it since, you may be sure."

"I think I shall go around to-morrow and call on Stephanie," Burgoyne announced.

"Do it, Sheldon—she's going to need all the friends she has—most of the women will side with Lorraine, you know."

"That is what makes me so strong the other way," declared Burgoyne.

"Added to the fact that you're not married. If you had a wife to consult, the chances are you would either think differently—or not think. The unfortunate thing is, the men will have little or nothing to say about it. It is the women that Stephanie has to placate, and she has anything but a rosy path cut out for her, I'm afraid. We men don't understand woman—we never have understood her and we never shall. We see only the surface of her nature—that is all she ever permits us to see—and it is very pleasant to look upon. Under the surface, however, is hidden a fund of petty meannesses, which she reserves exclusively for her own sex. She knows better than to vent them on us—we wouldn't tolerate it for a moment."

"Are you speaking generally or with specific reference to Stephanie Lorraine?" queried Burgoyne.

"Both. It is a general proposition applied to a specific instance."

"Aren't you a bit hard on the women?" Burgoyne asked.

"I think not—but I don't ask you to believe me. If you're happier not to believe, all right. Every man to his experience and what it teaches him."

"Has your experience taught you any such doctrine?"

"My experience, together with my observation, has taught me all of that and much more. The trouble is I don't follow it. I can't withstand the feminine fascination and charm—nor my fondness for their society and so on. I'm a good deal like the fellow who couldn't resist the alluringly beautiful color of the red-hot iron and grabbed it with bare hands instead of with tongs."

"You advise me, then, to go after Miss Emerson with tongs?" laughed Burgoyne.

"I decline to advise you—you're quite of sufficient age to advise yourself," Pendleton responded.

"To return to Mrs. Lorraine," said Burgoyne. "The women didn't manifest much charity this afternoon, I must admit. They were as cold as the proverbial ice water."

"Yes—'seeing they see not'—as some one has it."

"And until they or some of them will consent to see, I fear that Stephanie will be very lonely."

Pendleton nodded. "It might have been better if she had remained abroad for a year or two—till the thing died down. Now it will depend on Stephanie herself whether she can force Society's hand."

"Is that her idea, do you think—to force Society's hand?"

"I don't know that she has formed any idea. She has been home only a day or two, you must remember."

"Judging from this afternoon—I should say she hasn't," remarked Burgoyne. "To come to the Club was about the wildest thing she could have done—and then, as a climax, to meet Lorraine right in the centre of the spot light! He seems to have known his mind when it came to the pinch. I understand he gave her his back."

"He did. So far as they two are concerned the decision is made finally," Pendleton replied. "The last hope of a reconciliation is past."

An hour later, when the piazza was almost deserted, two men came from the house and sat down some little distance away from the quiet corner where Pendleton and Burgoyne still lingered.

"Who are they?" said Burgoyne.

"Porshinger and Murchison," Pendleton replied—"both new ones, also, since you've been gone. They are long on money but short on breeding and manners."

"How did they get in?"

"Climbed in some way—otherwise bought their way in. Porshinger is a capitalist, who capitalized some of the Board of Governors; and Murchison is a big broker who gave a couple of them tips that eventuated. VoilÀ!"

"They are bounders, I suppose—like Emerson?"

"Of a different kind. Emerson is a good sort—these fellows are bounders of the offensive type. Emerson wants to be a gentleman and tries to be one—Porshinger et al. neither wants to be nor tries. It is a great thing, now-a-days, being one of the Governors of a fashionable club—when the new rich are climbing upward on the golden ladder. Many impoverished fortunes have been restored, even to affluence, by prospective candidates for admission."

"Has it come to be so bad as that?" said Burgoyne astonished.

"It has. Within the last two years there have been at least a score of candidates elected to membership in this and other fashionable clubs who have bought their election by before-and-after favors to certain members of the Boards."

"What are we coming to?" Burgoyne exclaimed.

"The aristocracy of dollars. In a few years those of moderate means, like ourselves, will be rooted out of our place by the gold hogs. They will make it so expensive that we cannot belong. Already the old families are beginning to drop out because of the cost: the doubled dues—the higher priced card—the increased style of doing even the simplest things—and, if they have wives or daughters or both, the elaborate dressing that is necessary if they want them to look even half decent and to be asked anywhere. They can't afford to keep up the pace. So there's nothing to do but to drop out. Our time is coming, Burgoyne—we may last longer because we have no feminine appendages, but our limit will be reached, also—it is only a question of a very little longer."

"Well, we shall be in good company at all events!" laughed Burgoyne.

"Yes, that is the recompense," commented Pendleton. "But it riles me to go down before these contemptible crowders-out, like the two yonder."

Burgoyne did not respond immediately and Porshinger's harsh voice came floating over.

"Did you see the Lorraine episode this afternoon?" he chuckled. "She came here—actually had the audacity to come here—and she bumped into Lorraine right there on the piazza—and he gave her the frozen face hard. It was great."

"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a professional of the street—to come still warm from Amherst's arms and flaunt herself before them all. I should have thought the little shame she has left would have held her from this last atrocity."

"She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't blame Amherst—not in the least."

"Sure—she's a screamer—the tall, willowy sort—Kipling's vampire kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself."

Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up.

"Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help."

He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men.

"Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance."

"Why?"

"Because she has——"

The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth.

"What the devil!" cried he, sitting up.

Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out.

"I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down."

"What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not—I'm no tailor."

"Aren't you? I thought you were—I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?"

"I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have I done to you, Pendleton?"

"I've told you I don't like the cut of your coat," was the answer. "Put up your hands, if you don't want me to take my stick to you."

"The man must have lost his mind! Mr. Burgoyne, can't you do something?" Porshinger cried, retreating until his back was against the railing.

For answer, Pendleton's left shot out and tapped Porshinger lightly on the nose.

"Put up your hands," said he, and tapped him again.

Murchison sprang between them.

"Stop!" he cried. "What do you mean, Pendleton?"

"I've already answered that question several times," Pendleton replied. "Sheldon, will you be kind enough to take charge of Mr. Murchison?"

"Come to think of it I don't like the cut of your coat either, Mr. Murchison," said Burgoyne. "Oblige me by standing aside."

"What's the matter with you damn fools?" demanded Murchison. "Are you trying to pick a fight?"

"Yes," said Pendleton quietly, "but we are meeting with very poor success;" and he tapped Porshinger a third time—and harder.

"Well, if that's what you're after we'll accommodate you!" exclaimed Murchison. "Porshinger, let's give them what's coming to them"—and picking up a chair he let it drive at Burgoyne's head.

The next few minutes were very busy for all parties concerned—and when the astonished servants, attracted by the noise of overturning tables and shifting feet, hurried to the scene, Porshinger and Murchison were bearing their contusions down to the wash-room, while Pendleton and Burgoyne, without a scratch upon them—except for abraded knuckles—were in their chairs and smoking peacefully.

"What was it all about—why did they start the rough house?" Porshinger demanded, while they were repairing the damages.

"Don't you know?" asked Murchison.

"If I knew I wouldn't have asked you!" the other retorted.

"They overheard our talk about Mrs. Lorraine and resented it, I think," said Murchison.

"Hell! I might have known—Pendleton and Burgoyne met her when she came here this afternoon. Well, I fancy we can square off with them; Mrs. Lorraine is a pretty fair target—and Pendleton is not invulnerable to those who know how to reach him."

"You would better let Pendleton alone," cautioned Murchison.

"What! I think not. I'm not that sort. He started the fight so I'm going to accommodate him. Didn't like the cut of our coats, didn't they? What the devil did they mean by that—what's our clothes got to do with starting a rough-house?" he reiterated. "I don't understand—they didn't mention the Lorraine woman's name!"

"No, that is just it!" Murchison remarked. "They didn't mention her name; they chose some fool pretext for a quarrel so as not to mix her up with it. I've read of the thing, but I've never seen it before. Pretty neat dodge: I don't like the cut of your coat, or whiskers, or cravat, or trousers—so I'll knock your infernal block off. Biff! And the lady's name never mentioned! It's damn neat."

Porshinger looked at him in disgust.

"Why don't you go and tell them so!" he sneered. "They'll likely be courteous and biff you again."

"Probably they would," admitted Murchison good-naturedly.

"I didn't know they were so handy with their fists," Porshinger growled—he was bathing an eye in cold water.

"Maybe we were only particularly unhandy with ours," the other remarked. "At any rate, they're better than us, all right."

"Better at the fist-game, yes," retorted Porshinger. "We'll see now if they're better at some other games, damn them."

"Better forget it—and hold our tongues," Murchison advised again.

"Forget it? Not me! I never forget an injury—and I usually square off my debts. See!"