unto love.  My nature, my soul was at its utmost flow, but no one touched the flood-gates.  Gerome was passive, silent.  One word, a hand-touch, and I would have loved him and bound myself to him for weal or woe!  Little things are every thing in a woman’s life.  Robert Fairfield passed by beneath the window; he briefly paused, politely looked up, lifted his hat, smiled, and—­innocent of what he had done—­went on his way.  He had simply done what was the proper and usual thing, but his conventional smile had come into my life at a strangely opportune moment—­or, was it opportune?  My heart had been laid bare, the flood-gates had been touched, and they had slowly opened beneath the magic influence of a smile.  Gerome Meadows had been silent.  He had lost his one golden opportunity.  I told him so, and sent him away.  I fired upon him a volley of ridicule and contempt; my revenge was complete.  He was angry, surprised, disappointed.  The old wounds were torn open afresh; but he was not easily undone.  He immediately made peace with his irate mother.  He placed himself in her charge.  He promised to try again, but under her direction and according to her selection.  In a few days more he goes to the altar with this new and latest love.  But, ah!  Gerome, your charming, susceptible self never loved but once!  Where is that devilish brown-eyed beauty?  It is well that she is silent!  One word from her and—­but, go marry.  And pray, take with you my conventional wishes for your peace and happiness.  On your wedding day I will write you a dainty card and send you a trifle.

What shall it be?  What would be, under the “existing circumstances,” the most appropriate thing?  Perhaps a little Cupid, somewhat weather-beaten and with an empty quiver might do, or, best of all, a lock of golden-brown hair stolen from the rich, heavy tresses of that devilish brown-eyed beauty.  What say you?  But au revoir, Gerome Meadows.

There is to be a reception—­a most elegant affair—­the night of the wedding.  It is to be given by that now well-satisfied lady, Mrs. Gillespie Meadows, the mother of my dear, dear Gerome.  My escort:  Robert Fairfield.  The beginning of another end!  What will it be?

[Illustration:  Miss Mary Lee Manley, (of The Inner Sisterhood.)]

* * * * *

VII

       An Olive Outline
       In Shades and Shadows
       Of a Clever Social Life.

* * * * *

Platitudes and Pleasures.

My life is different from the usual social existence of the average society girl.

I have never followed the mirage of a definite ideal.

I have never been a straggler for social honors—­they have been mine without the struggling.  I was born to a position.  It is mine by right of inheritance.  There is no strong odor of lately acquired greenbacks about our old and very respectable establishment.  We live on a quiet, unfashionable street; we are somewhat apart from the world, and yet we are frequently sought—­for we never seek.  My grandfather was a man of excellent parts and much power in his native State.  He was a well-known, important factor in the home of his adoption.  His wife was celebrated for her ready wit and radiant beauty in the days when Madison was President.