“If I had been killed in a duel I couldn’t be better.”  It was Jones the novelist describing the state of his health.  “But how is my friend and brother in virtue?”

“Utterly ramollescent,” Roland answered, confidingly.  “What the French call gaga.”

The mid-day meal was in progress, and the two men, seated opposite each other, were dividing a Demidorf salad.  They had been schoolmates at Concord, and despite the fact that until the day before they had not met for a decennium, the happy-go-lucky intimacy of earlier days had eluded Time and still survived.  Throughout the glass-enclosed piazza other people were lunching, and every now and then Jones, catching a wandering eye, would bend forward a little and smile.  Though it was but the first of the year, the weather resembled that of May.  One huge casement was wide open.  There was sunlight everywhere, flowers too, and beyond you could see the sky, a dome of opal and sapphire blent.

“Well,” Jones replied, “I can’t say you have altered much.  But then who does?  You remember, don’t you” ­and Jones ran on with some anecdote of earlier days.

But Roland had ceased to listen.  It was very pleasant here, he told himself.  There was a freedom about it that the English country-house, however charming, lacked.  There was no one to suggest things for you to do, there was no host or hostess to exact attention, and the women were prettier, better dressed, less conventional, and yet more assured in manner than any that he had encountered for years.  The men, too, were a good lot; and given one or two more little surprises, such as he had found in the card-room, he felt willing to linger on indefinitely ­a week at least, a month if the fare held out.  His eyes roamed through the glitter of the room.  Presently, at a neighboring table, he noticed the girl with whom he had seen the old year depart:  she was nodding to him; and Roland, with that courtesy that betokens the foreigner a mile away, rose from his seat as he bowed in return.

Jones, whom little escaped, glanced over his shoulder.  “By the way, are you on this side for good?” he asked; and Roland answering with the vague shrug the undetermined give, he hastened to add ­“or for bad?”

“That depends.  I ran over to settle my father’s estate, but they seem to have settled it for me.  After all, this is no place for a pauper, is it?”

“The wolf’s at the door, is he?”

Roland laughed shortly.  “At the door?  Good Lord!  I wish he were!  He’s in the room.”

“There, dear boy, never mind.  Wait till spring comes and marry an heiress.  There are so many hereabouts that we use them for export purposes.  They are a glut in the market.  There’s a fair specimen.  Ever meet her before?”

“Meet whom?”

“That girl you just bowed to.  They call her father Honest Paul.  Oh, if you ask me why, I can’t tell.  It’s a nick-name, like another.  It may be because he says Amen so loud in church.  A number of people have made him trustee, but whether on that account or not they never told.  However, he’s a big man, owns a mile or two up there near the Riverside.  I should rate him at not a penny less than ten million.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Dunellen ­the Hon. Paul Dunellen.  At one time ­”

Jones rambled on, and again Roland had ceased to listen.  But it was not the present now that claimed him.  At the mention of the plutocrat something from the past came back and called him there ­a thing so shadowy that, when he turned to interrogate, it eluded him and disappeared.  Then at once, without conscious effort, an episode which he had long since put from him arose and detained his thought.  But what on earth, he wondered, had the name of Dunellen to do with that?  And for the moment dumbly perplexed, yet outwardly attentive, he puzzled over the connection and tried to find the link; yet that too was elusive:  the name seemed to lose its suggestiveness, and presently it sank behind the episode it had evoked.

“Of course,” Jones was saying, in reference, evidently, to what had gone before ­“of course as millionaires go he is not first chop.  Jerolomon could match him head or tail for all he has, and never miss it if he lost.  Ten million, though, is a tidy sum ­just enough to entertain on.  A penny less and you are pinched.  Why, you would be surprised ­”

“Has he any other children?”

“Who?  Dunellen?  None that he has acknowledged.”

“Then his daughter will come in for it all.”

“That’s what I said.  When she does, she will probably hand it over to some man who wont know how to spend it.  She’s got a cousin ­what’s that beggar’s name?  However, he’s a physician, makes a specialty of nervous diseases, I believe; good enough fellow in his way, but an everlasting bore ­the sort of man you would avoid in a club, and trust your sister to.  What the deuce is his name?”

“Well, what of him?”

“Ah, yes.  I fancy he wants to get married, and when he does, to entertain.  He is very devoted.”

“But nowadays, barring royalty, no one ever marries a cousin.”

“Dear boy, you forget; it isn’t every cousin that has ten million.  When she has, the attempt is invariable.”  And Jones accentuated his remark with a nod.  “Now,” he continued, “what do you say to a look at the library?  They have a superb edition of Kirschwasser in there, and a full set of the works of Chartreuse.”

The novelist had arisen; he was leaving the room, and Roland was about to follow him, when he noticed that Miss Dunellen was preparing to leave it too.  Before she reached the hall he was at her side.

There is this about the New York girl ­her beauty is often bewildering, yet unless a husband catch her in the nick of time the bewilderment of that beauty fades.  At sixteen Justine Dunellen had been enchanting, at twenty-three she was plain.  Her face still retained its oval, but from it something had evaporated and gone.  Her mouth, too, had altered.  In place of the volatile brilliance of earlier years, it was drawn a little; it seemed resolute, and it also seemed subdued.  But one feature had not changed:  her eyes, which were of the color of snuff, enchanted still.  They were large and clear, and when you looked in them you saw such possibilities of tenderness and sincerity that the escape of the transient was unregretted; you forgot the girl that had been, and loved the woman that was.

And lovable she was indeed.  The world is filled with charming people whom, parenthetically, many of us never meet; yet, however scant our list may be, there are moments when from Memory’s gardens a vision issues we would fain detain.  Who is there to whom that vision has not come?  Nay, who is there that has not intercepted it, and, to the heart’s perdition perhaps, suffered it to retreat?  If there be any to whom such apparitions are unvouchsafed, let him evoke that woman whom he would like his sister to resemble and his wife to be.  Then, if his intuitions are acute, there will appear before him one who has turned sympathy into a garment and taken refinement for a wreath; a woman just yet debonair, thoughtful of others, true to herself; a woman whose speech can weary no more than can a star, whose mind is clean as wholesome fruit, whose laugh is infrequent, and whose voice consoles; a woman who makes the boor chivalrous, and the chivalrous bend the knee.  Such an one did Justine Dunellen seem.  In person she was tall, slender, willowy of movement, with just that shrinking graciousness that the old masters gave to certain figures which they wished to represent as floating off the canvas into space.

And now, as Roland joined her, she smiled and greeted him.  With her was a lady to whom she turned: 

“Mrs. Metuchen, this is Mr. Mistrial.”

And Roland found himself bowing to a little old woman elaborately dressed.  She was, he presently discovered, a feather-head person, who gave herself the airs of a princesse en couches.  But though not the rose, at least she dwelt near by.  Her husband was Mr. Dunellen’s partner; and to Justine, particularly since the death of her mother, she had become what the Germans, who have many a neat expression, term a Wahlverwandtschaft ­a relation not of blood, but of choice.  She was feather-headed, but she was a lady; she was absurd, but she was lovable; and by Justine she was evidently beloved.

Roland got her a seat, found a footstool for her, and pleased her very much by the interest which he displayed in her family tree.

“I knew all your people,” she announced at last.  And when she did so, her manner was so gracious that Roland felt the hour had not been thrown away.

During the rest of the day he managed to be frequently in her vicinity.  The better part of the morrow he succeeded in sharing with Justine.  And in the evening, when the latter bade him good-night, it occurred to him that if what Jones had said in regard to the cousin was true, then was the cousin losing ground.

The next morning Mrs. Metuchen and her charge returned to town.  Roland followed in a later train.  As he crossed the ferry he told himself he had much to do; and on reaching New York he picked up his valise with the air of one who has no time to lose.