Their glances met.  Nancy’s was amused, baffling, like a spark in amber.  Each, in its way, was redoubtable.  A greater contrast between two women could scarcely have been imagined.  It was well said (and not snobbishly) that generations had been required to make Nancy’s figure:  she wore a dress of blue sheen, the light playing on its ripples; and as she stood, apparently wholly at ease, looking down at the wife of Adolf Scherer, she reminded me of an expert swordsman who, with remarkable skill, was keeping a too pressing and determined aspirant at arm’s length.  I was keenly aware that Maude did not possess this gift, and I realized for the first time something of the similarity between Nancy’s career and my own.  She, too, in her feminine sphere, exercised, and subtly, a power in which human passions were deeply involved.

If Nancy Durrett symbolized aristocracy, established order and prestige, what did Mrs. Scherer represent?  Not democracy, mob rule—­certainly.  The stocky German peasant woman with her tightly drawn hair and heavy jewels seemed grotesquely to embody something that ultimately would have its way, a lusty and terrible force in the interests of which my own services were enlisted; to which the old American element in business and industry, the male counterpart of Nancy Willett, had already succumbed.  And now it was about to storm the feminine fastnesses!  I beheld a woman who had come to this country with a shawl aver her head transformed into a new species of duchess, sure of herself, scorning the delicate euphemisms in which Fancy’s kind were wont to refer to asocial realm, that was no less real because its boundaries had not definitely been defined.  She held her stick firmly, and gave Nancy an indomitable look.

“I want you to meet my daughters.  Gretchen, Anna, come here and be introduced to Mrs. Durrett.”

It was not without curiosity I watched these of the second generation as they made their bows, noted the differentiation in the type for which an American environment and a “finishing school” had been responsible.  Gretchen and Anna had learned—­in crises, such as the present—­to restrain the superabundant vitality they had inherited.  If their cheekbones were a little too high, their Delft blue eyes a little too small, their colour was of the proverbial rose-leaves and cream.  Gene Hollister’s difficulty was to know which to marry.  They were nice girls,—­of that there could be no doubt; there was no false modesty in their attitude toward “society”; nor did they pretend—­as so many silly people did, that they were not attempting to get anywhere in particular, that it was less desirable to be in the centre than on the dubious outer walks.  They, too, were so glad to meet Mrs. Durrett.

Nancy’s eyes twinkled as they passed on.

“You see what I have let you in for?” I said.

“My dear Hugh,” she replied, “sooner or later we should have had to face them anyhow.  I have recognized that for some time.  With their money, and Mr. Scherer’s prestige, and the will of that lady with the stick, in a few years we should have had nothing to say.  Why, she’s a female Napoleon.  Hilda’s the man of the family.”