“Surely Miss Lennox might remain; the carriage could be sent back for her; and he had hardly seen her at all.”

But Miss Lennox chose to go; and after her white cloak and hood passed down the stairs and through the door into the street, there was nothing attractive for Mark in his crowded parlors, and he was glad when the last guest had departed and he was left alone with his mother.

Operas, parties, receptions, dinners, matinees, morning calls, drives, visits and shopping; how fast one crowded upon the other, leaving scarcely an hour of leisure to the devotee of fashion who attended to them all.  How astonished Helen was to find what high life in New York implied, ceasing to wonder that so many of the young girls grew haggard and old before their time, or that the dowagers grew selfish and hard and scheming.  She would die outright, she thought, and she pitied poor little Katy, who, having once returned to the world, seemed destined to remain there, in spite of her entreaties and the excuses she made for declining the invitations which poured in so fast.

“Baby was not well—­baby needed her,” was the plea with which she met Wilford’s arguments, until the mention of his child was sure to bring a scowl upon his face, and it became a question in Helen’s mind whether he would not be happier if baby had never come between him and his ambition.

To hear Katy’s charms extolled, and know that she was admired, and he was envied the possession of so rare a gem, feeling all the while sure of her faith, was Wilford’s great delight, and it is not strange that, without any very strong fatherly feeling or principle of right in that respect, he should be irritated by the little life so constantly interfering with his pleasure and so surely undermining Katy’s health.  For Katy did not improve, as Wilford hoped she might; and with his two hands he could almost span her slender waist, while the beautiful neck and shoulders, once his chiefest pride, were no longer worn uncovered, for Katy would not display her bones, whatever the fashion might be.  In this dilemma Wilford sought his mother, and the result of that consultation brought a more satisfied look to his face than it had worn for many a day.

“Strange he had never thought of it, when it was what so many people did,” he said to himself as he hurried home.  “It was the very best thing both for Katy and the child, and would obviate every difficulty.”

Next morning, as she sometimes did when more than usually fatigued, Katy breakfasted in bed; while Wilford’s face, as he sat opposite Helen at the table, had on it a look of quiet determination, such as she had rarely seen there before.  In a measure accustomed to his moods, she felt that something was wrong, and never dreaming that he intended honoring her with his confidence, she was wishing he would finish the coffee and leave, when, motioning the servant from the room, he said abruptly, and in a tone which roused Helen’s antagonistic powers at once, it was so cool, so decided:  “I believe you have more influence over your sister than I have; at least, she has latterly shown a willfulness in disregarding me and a willingness to listen to you, which confirms me in this conclusion—­”