Ursula inspected herself in the glass, saw a face and form exceeding fair to look upon; she decided to take her brother’s advice.  At twenty she threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh for love—­Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year.  Of course, from the standpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in New York is but one remove from tenement house poverty.  As Clayton had no more ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothing to do but live with Norman and “take care of him.”  But for this self-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich at thirty-seven.  As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progress toward luxurious independence was slower—­and there was the house, costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up.

There had been a time in Norman’s career—­a brief and very early time—­when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he had entertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor or people’s side and fighting for glory only.  The pressure of expensive living had soon driven this notion clean off.  Norman had almost forgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it had been in the last year at law school.  Young men of high intelligence and ardent temperament always pass through this period.  With some—­a few—­its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before the cool, steady breath of worldliness.

All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner.  He now leaves the third floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twenty minutes of the dinner hour.

As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman’s voice called to him, “That you, Fred?”

He turned in at his sister’s sitting room.  She was standing at a table smoking a cigarette.  Her tall, slim figure looked even taller and slimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress.  Her features faintly suggested her relationship to Norman.  She was a handsome woman, with a voluptuous discontented mouth.

“What are you worried about, sis?” inquired he.

“How did you know I was worried?” returned she.

“You always are.”

“Oh!”

“But you’re unusually worried to-night.”

“How did you know that?”

“You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . .  What is it?”

“Money.”

“Of course.  No one in New York worries about anything else.”

“But this is serious,” protested she.  “I’ve been thinking—­about your marriage—­and what’ll become of Clayton and me?” She halted, red with embarrassment.

Norman lit a cigarette himself.  “I ought to have explained,” said he.  “But I assumed you’d understand.”

“Fred, you know Clayton can’t make anything.  And when you marry—­why—­what will become of us!”

“I’ve been taking care of Clayton’s money—­and of yours.  I’ll continue to do it.  I think you’ll find you’re not so badly of.  You see, my position enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in on the ground floor—­and to warn me in good time before the house falls.  You’ll not miss me, Ursula.”