no modern devices of decoration. Everything was solid and comfortable,
worn, and of a long and honourable descent. The dining-room and large
square hall were striking because of the blackness of their oak walls,
the many family portraits, and certain old trophies of the chase, as
vague in their high dark corners as fading daguerreotypes.

So imbued was Betty with the idea that anything more elaborate was the
sign manifest of too recent fortune, that she had indulged in caustic
criticism of the modern palaces of certain New York friends. But
although the immediate impression of the Montgomery house was of soft
luxurious richness, and it was indubitably the home of wealthy people
determined to enjoy life, Miss Madison's dainty nose did not lift
itself.

"At all events, the money is not laid on with a trowel," she thought.
And then she became aware of a curious sensuous longing as she looked
again at the dim rich beauty about her, the smothered windows, the
suggested power of withdrawal from every vulgar or annoying contact
beyond those stately walls.

"I should like--I should like--" thought Betty, striving to put her
vague emotion into words, "to live in this sort of house when I
marry." And then her humour flashed up: it was a sense that sat at the
heels of every serious thought. "What a combination with the twang and
the toothpick! Can they really be my fate? Of course I might reform
both, and cut off his Uncle Sam beard while he slept."

She had taken the wrong direction and entered a room in which there
was not even a stray guest. A loud buzz of voices rose and fell at the
end of a long hall, and she slowly made her way to the drawing-room,