by the curiosity and imagination which the traveler feels when he departs for a land which he desires, and yet dreads to see lest his illusions should vanish.  Margaret was about to take that journey in the world which Miss Forsythe had dreamed of in her youth, but had never set out on.  There are some who say that those are happiest who keep at home and content themselves with reading about the lands of the imagination.  But happily the world does not believe this, and indeed would be very unhappy if it could not try and prove all the possibilities of human nature, to suffer as well as to enjoy.

I do not know how we fell into the feeling that this marriage was somehow exceptional and important, since marriages take place every day, and are so common and ordinarily so commonplace, when the first flutter is over.  Even Morgan said, in his wife’s presence, that he thought there had been weddings enough; at least he would interdict those that upset things like this one.  For one thing, it brought about the house-keeping union of Mrs. Fletcher and Miss Forsythe in the tatter’s cottage—­a sort of closing up of the ranks that happens on the field during a fatal engagement.  As we go on, it becomes more and more difficult to fill up the gaps.

We were very unwilling to feel that Margaret had gone out of our life.  “But you cannot,” Morgan used to say, “be friends with the rich, and that is what makes the position of the very rich so pitiful, for the rich get so tired of each other.”

“But Margaret,” my wife urged, “will never be of that sort:  money will not change either her habits or her affections.”

“Perhaps.  You can never trust to inherited poverty.  I have no doubt that she will resist the world, if anybody can, but my advice is that if you want to keep along with Margaret, you’d better urge your husband to make money.  Experience seems to teach that while they cannot come to us, we may sometimes go to them.”

My wife and Mrs. Fletcher were both indignant at this banter, and accused Morgan of want of faith, and even lack of affection for Margaret; in short, of worldly-mindedness himself.

“Perhaps I am rather shop-worn,” he confessed.  “It’s not distrust of Margaret’s intentions, but knowledge of the strength of the current on which she has embarked.  Henderson will not stop in his career short of some overwhelming disaster or of death.”

“I thought you liked him?  At any rate, Margaret will make a good use of his money.”

“It isn’t a question, my dear Mrs. Fairchild, of the use of money, but of the use money makes of you.  Yes, I do like Henderson, but I can’t give up my philosophy of life for the sake of one good fellow.”

“Philosophy of fudge!” exclaimed my wife.  And there really was no answer to this.