My experiment with Harry had proved a complete success. Left to
the management of his own affairs, he had shown a wisdom and
restraint none the less welcome because unexpected. He was glad
to see me, and I was no less glad to see him.

There was little new in town.

Bob Garforth, having gambled away his entire patrimony, had shot
and killed himself on the street; Mrs. Ludworth had publicly
defied gossip and smiled with favor on young Driscoll; the new
director of the Metropolitan Museum had announced himself an
enemy to tradition and a friend of progress; and Desiree Le Mire
had consented to a two weeks' engagement at the Stuyvesant.

The French dancer was the favorite topic of discussion in all
circles.

The newspapers were full of her and filled entire columns with
lists of the kings, princes, and dukes who had been at her feet.

Bets were made on her nationality, the color of her eyes, the
value of her pearls, the number of suicides she had caused--
corresponding, in some sort, to the notches on the gun of a
Western bad man. Gowns and hats were named for her by the
enterprising department stores.

It was announced that her engagement at the Stuyvesant would open
in ten days, and when the box-office opened for the advance sale
every seat for every performance was sold within a few hours.