yawned their way in Dallas’s wake through the English cathedrals; and May, always fair to her children, had insisted on holding the balance evenly between their athletic and artistic proclivities.  She had indeed proposed that her husband should go to Paris for a fortnight, and join them on the Italian lakes after they had “done” Switzerland; but Archer had declined.  “We’ll stick together,” he said; and May’s face had brightened at his setting such a good example to Dallas.

Since her death, nearly two years before, there had been no reason for his continuing in the same routine.  His children had urged him to travel:  Mary Chivers had felt sure it would do him good to go abroad and “see the galleries.”  The very mysteriousness of such a cure made her the more confident of its efficacy.  But Archer had found himself held fast by habit, by memories, by a sudden startled shrinking from new things.

Now, as he reviewed his past, he saw into what a deep rut he had sunk.  The worst of doing one’s duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.  At least that was the view that the men of his generation had taken.  The trenchant divisions between right and wrong, honest and dishonest, respectable and the reverse, had left so little scope for the unforeseen.  There are moments when a man’s imagination, so easily subdued to what it lives in, suddenly rises above its daily level, and surveys the long windings of destiny.  Archer hung there and wondered. . . .

What was left of the little world he had grown up in, and whose standards had bent and bound him?  He remembered a sneering prophecy of poor Lawrence Lefferts’s, uttered years ago in that very room:  “If things go on at this rate, our children will be marrying Beaufort’s bastards.”

It was just what Archer’s eldest son, the pride of his life, was doing; and nobody wondered or reproved.  Even the boy’s Aunt Janey, who still looked so exactly as she used to in her elderly youth, had taken her mother’s emeralds and seed-pearls out of their pink cotton-wool, and carried them with her own twitching hands to the future bride; and Fanny Beaufort, instead of looking disappointed at not receiving a “set” from a Paris jeweller, had exclaimed at their old-fashioned beauty, and declared that when she wore them she should feel like an Isabey miniature.

Fanny Beaufort, who had appeared in New York at eighteen, after the death of her parents, had won its heart much as Madame Olenska had won it thirty years earlier; only instead of being distrustful and afraid of her, society took her joyfully for granted.  She was pretty, amusing and accomplished:  what more did any one want?  Nobody was narrow-minded enough to rake up against her the half-forgotten facts of her father’s past and her own origin.  Only the older people remembered so obscure an incident in the business life of New York as Beaufort’s failure, or the fact that after his wife’s death