hat, have you, Jimmy?” “Did you meet that girl I was telling you about?” “Hello, old man! have a good time to-night?” “Lost your hat?  No, I haven’t seen it.”  “Yes, about half-past ten!” “Well, I told him that myself!” “Ah, you bet it’s the man that rustles that gets there.”  “Come round about four, then.”  “What’s the matter with coming home in our carriage?”

At the doors of the dressing-rooms the ladies joined their escorts, and a great crowd formed in the halls, worming down the stairs and out upon the front steps.  As the first groups reached the open air there was a great cry:  “Why, it’s pouring rain!” This was taken up and repeated and carried all the way back into the house.  There were exclamations of dismay and annoyance:  “Why, it’s raining right down!” “What shall we do!” Tempers were lost, brothers and sisters quarrelling with each other over the question of umbrellas.  “Ah,” said Geary, delighted, peeling the cover from his umbrella in the vestibule, “I thought it was going to rain before I left and brought mine along with me.  Ah, you bet I always look out for rain!” On the horse-block stood the caller, chanting up the carriages at the top of his voice.  The street was full of coupes, carriages, and hacks, the raindrops showing in a golden blur as they fell across the streaming light of their lamps.  The horses were smoking and restless, and the drivers in oilskins and rubber blankets were wrangling and shouting.  At every instant there was a long roll of wheels interrupted by the banging of the doors.  Near the caller stood a useless policeman, his shield pinned on the outside of his wet rubber coat, on which the carriage lamps were momentarily reflected in long vertical streaks.

In a short time all the guests were gone except the one young lady whose maid and carriage had somehow not been sent.  Henrietta Vance’s brother took this one home in a hired hack.  Mrs. Vance and Henrietta sat down to rest for a moment in the empty parlours.  The canvas-covered floors were littered with leaves of smilax and La France roses, with bits of ribbon, ends of lace, and discarded Phrygian bonnets of tissue paper.  The butler and the second girl were already turning down the gas in the other rooms.

* * * * *

Long before the party broke up Vandover had gone home, stunned and dazed, as yet hardly able to realize the meaning of what had happened.  Some strange and dreadful change had taken place; things were different, people were different to him; not every one had been so outspoken as Turner, Henrietta Vance and her mother, but even amongst others who had talked to him politely and courteously enough, the change was no less apparent.  It was in the air, a certain vague shrinking and turning of the shoulder, a general atmosphere of aversion and repulsion, an unseen frown, an unexpressed rebuff, intangible, illusive, but as unmistakable as his own existence.  The world he had known knew him now no longer.  It was ostracism at last.