reserve towards them, but the example of going to this house set by the legations, the members of which enjoyed a chat with Miss Eschelle in the freedom of their own tongues and the freedom of her tongue, went far to break down this barrier.  They were spoken of occasionally as “those Eschelles,” but almost everybody went there, and perhaps enjoyed it all the more because there had been a shade of doubt about it.

Margaret’s coming was a good card for Carmen.  The little legend about her French ancestry in Newport, and the romantic marriage in Rochambeau’s time, had been elaborated in the local newspaper, and when she appeared the ancestral flavor, coupled with the knowledge of Henderson’s accumulating millions, lent an interest and a certain charm to whatever she said and did.  The Eschelle house became more attractive than ever before, so much so that Mrs. Eschelle declared that she longed for the quiet of Paris.  To her motherly apprehension there was no result in this whirl of gayety, no serious intention discoverable in any of the train that followed Carmen.  “You act, child,” she said, “as if youth would last forever.”

Margaret entered into this life as if she had been born to it.  Perhaps she was.  Perhaps most people never find the career for which they are fitted, and struggle along at cross-purposes with themselves.  We all thought that Margaret’s natural bent was for some useful and self-sacrificing work in the world, and never could have imagined that under any circumstances she would develop into a woman of fashion.

“I intend to read a great deal this month,” she said to Carmen on her arrival, as she glanced at the litter of books.

“That was my intention,” replied Carmen; “now we can read together.  I’m taking Spanish lessons of Count Crispo.  I’ve learned two Spanish poems and a Castilian dance.”

“Is he married?”

“Not now.  He told me, when he was teaching me the steps, that his heart was buried in Seville.”

“He seems to be full of sentiment.”

“Perhaps that is because his salary is so small.  Mamma says, of all things an impecunious count!  But he is amusing.”

“But what do you care for money?” asked Margaret, by way of testing Carmen’s motives.

“Nothing, my dear.  But deliver me from a husband who is poor; he would certainly be a tyrant.  Besides, if I ever marry, it will be with an American.”

“But suppose you fall in love with a poor man?”

“That would be against my principles.  Never fall below your ideals—­that is what I heard a speaker say at the Town and Country Club, and that is my notion.  There is no safety for you if you lose your principles.”

“That depends upon what they are,” said Margaret, in the same bantering tone.

“That sounds like good Mr. Lyon.  I suspect he thought I hadn’t any.  Mamma said I tried to shock him; but he shocked me.  Do you think you could live with such a man twenty-four hours, even if he had his crown on?”