“It is the legitimate occupation of many; the folly of unwise ambition impels others.  There is a fascination about social life that appeals to the majority of natures.  Let us compare society to a mountain whose sides are a steep incline, difficult to mount.  To stand upon the summit, to become the cynosure of all eyes, is a desire inherent, seemingly, in all humanity; for humanity loves distinction.  In the scramble toward the peak many fall by the wayside; others deceive themselves by imagining they have attained the apex when they are far from it.  It is a game, Mr. Merrick, just as business is a game, politics a game, and war a game.  You know how few really win.”

“Here,” said Uncle John, musingly, “is a philosophy I did not expect from you, Von Taer.  They tell me you’re one who stands on top the peak.  And you were born that way, and didn’t have to climb.  Seems to me you rather scorn the crowd that’s trying to climb to an eminence you never had to win.  That wouldn’t be my way.  And I suspect that if the crowd wasn’t trying to climb to you, your own position wouldn’t be worth a cotton hat.”

Von Taer had no answer to this criticism.  Perhaps he scarcely heard it, for he appeared lost in a brown study.  Finally he said:  “Will you permit my daughter to call upon your nieces, Mr. Merrick?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then kindly give me their addresses.”

Uncle John wrote them on a slip of paper.

“You may now dismiss the subject from your mind, sir, as you lately advised me to do.  Whatever may be accomplished in the direction you have suggested I will gladly undertake.  If I succeed it will be exceedingly gratifying to us all, I am sure.”

Mr. Merrick left the office in a rather humbled and testy mood.  He disliked to ask favors at any time and now felt that he had confided himself to the mercy of this callous aristocrat and met with a distinct rebuff.

But he had done it for the sake of his beloved nieces—­and they would never know what humiliation this unsatisfactory interview had cost him.

CHAPTER III

DIANA

Diana Von Taer can not be called a type.  She was individual.  Aristocratic to her finger tips, she was unlike all other aristocrats.  An admitted queen of society, her subjects were few and indifferent.  She possessed ancient lineage, was highly accomplished, had been born to the purple, as the saying is; but none of these things conspired to make her the curious creature she was.

As we make her acquaintance she is twenty-three years of age—­and looks eighteen.  She is tall and slender and carries her handsome form with exquisite grace.  Diana is never abrupt; her voice is ever modulated to soft, even tones; she rises from a chair or couch with the lithe, sinuous motion of a serpent uncoiling.

Her face, critically regarded, is not so admirable as her form.  The features are a trifle too elongated, and their delicacy is marred by a nose a bit broad and unshapely and a mouth with thin lips primly set.  Her dark eyes might be magnificent if wide open:  but through the narrow slits of their lids, half hidden by long curling lashes, the eyes peer at you with a cold, watchful, intent gaze that carries a certain uncanny and disconcerting fascination.