Beaton went away with the smile on his face which he had kept in listening to Fulkerson, and carried it with him to the reception.  He believed that Alma was vexed with him for more personal reasons than she had implied; it flattered him that she should have resented what he told her of the Dryfooses.  She had scolded him in their behalf apparently; but really because he had made her jealous by his interest, of whatever kind, in some one else.  What followed, had followed naturally.  Unless she had been quite a simpleton she could not have met his provisional love-making on any other terms; and the reason why Beaton chiefly liked Alma Leighton was that she was not a simpleton.  Even up in the country, when she was overawed by his acquaintance, at first, she was not very deeply overawed, and at times she was not overawed at all.  At such times she astonished him by taking his most solemn histrionics with flippant incredulity, and even burlesquing them.  But he could see, all the same, that he had caught her fancy, and he admired the skill with which she punished his neglect when they met in New York.  He had really come very near forgetting the Leightons; the intangible obligations of mutual kindness which hold some men so fast, hung loosely upon him; it would not have hurt him to break from them altogether; but when he recognized them at last, he found that it strengthened them indefinitely to have Alma ignore them so completely.  If she had been sentimental, or softly reproachful, that would have been the end; he could not have stood it; he would have had to drop her.  But when she met him on his own ground, and obliged him to be sentimental, the game was in her hands.  Beaton laughed, now, when he thought of that, and he said to himself that the girl had grown immensely since she had come to New York; nothing seemed to have been lost upon her; she must have kept her eyes uncommonly wide open.  He noticed that especially in their talks over her work; she had profited by everything she had seen and heard; she had all of Wetmore’s ideas pat; it amused Beaton to see how she seized every useful word that he dropped, too, and turned him to technical account whenever she could.  He liked that; she had a great deal of talent; there was no question of that; if she were a man there could be no question of her future.  He began to construct a future for her; it included provision for himself, too; it was a common future, in which their lives and work were united.

He was full of the glow of its prosperity when he met Margaret Vance at the reception.

The house was one where people might chat a long time together without publicly committing themselves to an interest in each other except such a grew out of each other’s ideas.  Miss Vance was there because she united in her catholic sympathies or ambitions the objects of the fashionable people and of the aesthetic people who met there on common ground.  It was almost the only house in New York where this happened often, and it did not happen very often there.  It was a literary house, primarily, with artistic qualifications, and the frequenters of it were mostly authors and artists; Wetmore, who was always trying to fit everything with a phrase, said it was the unfrequenters who were fashionable.  There was great ease there, and simplicity; and if there was not distinction, it was not for want of distinguished people, but because there seems to be some solvent in New York life that reduces all men to a common level, that touches everybody with its potent magic and brings to the surface the deeply underlying nobody.  The effect for some temperaments, for consciousness, for egotism, is admirable; for curiosity, for hero worship, it is rather baffling.  It is the spirit of the street transferred to the drawing-room; indiscriminating, levelling, but doubtless finally wholesome, and witnessing the immensity of the place, if not consenting to the grandeur of reputations or presences.

Beaton now denied that this house represented a salon at all, in the old sense; and he held that the salon was impossible, even undesirable, with us, when Miss Vance sighed for it.  At any rate, he said that this turmoil of coming and going, this bubble and babble, this cackling and hissing of conversation was not the expression of any such civilization as had created the salon.  Here, he owned, were the elements of intellectual delightfulness, but he said their assemblage in such quantity alone denied the salon; there was too much of a good thing.  The French word implied a long evening of general talk among the guests, crowned with a little chicken at supper, ending at cock-crow.  Here was tea, with milk or with lemon-baths of it and claret-cup for the hardier spirits throughout the evening.  It was very nice, very pleasant, but it was not the little chicken ­not the salon.  In fact, he affirmed, the salon descended from above, out of the great world, and included the aesthetic world in it.  But our great world ­the rich people, were stupid, with no wish to be otherwise; they were not even curious about authors and artists.  Beaton fancied himself speaking impartially, and so he allowed himself to speak bitterly; he said that in no other city in the world, except Vienna, perhaps, were such people so little a part of society.

“It isn’t altogether the rich people’s fault,” said Margaret; and she spoke impartially, too.  “I don’t believe that the literary men and the artists would like a salon that descended to them.  Madame Geoffrin, you know, was very plebeian; her husband was a business man of some sort.”

“He would have been a howling swell in New York,” said Beaton, still impartially.

Wetmore came up to their corner, with a scroll of bread and butter in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.  Large and fat, and clean-shaven, he looked like a monk in evening dress.

“We were talking about salons,” said Margaret.

“Why don’t you open a salon yourself?” asked Wetmore, breathing thickly from the anxiety of getting through the crowd without spilling his tea.

“Like poor Lady Barberina Lemon?” said the girl, with a laugh.  “What a good story!  That idea of a woman who couldn’t be interested in any of the arts because she was socially and traditionally the material of them!  We can, never reach that height of nonchalance in this country.”

“Not if we tried seriously?” suggested the painter.  “I’ve an idea that if the Americans ever gave their minds to that sort of thing, they could take the palm ­or the cake, as Beaton here would say ­just as they do in everything else.  When we do have an aristocracy, it will be an aristocracy that will go ahead of anything the world has ever seen.  Why don’t somebody make a beginning, and go in openly for an ancestry, and a lower middle class, and an hereditary legislature, and all the rest?  We’ve got liveries, and crests, and palaces, and caste feeling.  We’re all right as far as we’ve gone, and we’ve got the money to go any length.”

“Like your natural-gas man, Mr. Beaton,” said the girl, with a smiling glance round at him.

“Ah!” said Wetmore, stirring his tea, “has Beaton got a natural-gas man?”

“My natural-gas man,” said Beaton, ignoring Wetmore’s question, “doesn’t know how to live in his palace yet, and I doubt if he has any caste feeling.  I fancy his family believe themselves victims of it.  They say ­one of the young ladies does ­that she never saw such an unsociable place as New York; nobody calls.”

“That’s good!” said Wetmore.  “I suppose they’re all ready for company, too:  good cook, furniture, servants, carriages?”

“Galore,” said Beaton.

“Well, that’s too bad.  There’s a chance for you, Miss Vance.  Doesn’t your philanthropy embrace the socially destitute as well as the financially?  Just think of a family like that, without a friend, in a great city!  I should think common charity had a duty there ­not to mention the uncommon.”

He distinguished that kind as Margaret’s by a glance of ironical deference.  She had a repute for good works which was out of proportion to the works, as it always is, but she was really active in that way, under the vague obligation, which we now all feel, to be helpful.  She was of the church which seems to have found a reversion to the imposing ritual of the past the way back to the early ideals of Christian brotherhood.

“Oh, they seem to have Mr. Beaton,” Margaret answered, and Beaton felt obscurely flattered by her reference to his patronage of the Dryfooses.

He explained to Wetmore:  “They have me because they partly own me.  Dryfoos is Fulkerson’s financial backer in ’Every Other Week’.”

“Is that so?  Well, that’s interesting, too.  Aren’t you rather astonished, Miss Vance, to see what a petty thing Beaton is making of that magazine of his?”

“Oh,” said Margaret, “it’s so very nice, every way; it makes you feel as if you did have a country, after all.  It’s as chic ­that detestable little word! ­as those new French books.”

“Beaton modelled it on them.  But you mustn’t suppose he does everything about ‘Every Other Week’; he’d like you to.  Beaton, you haven’t come up to that cover of your first number, since.  That was the design of one of my pupils, Miss Vance ­a little girl that Beaton discovered down in New Hampshire last summer.”

“Oh yes.  And have you great hopes of her, Mr. Wetmore?”

“She seems to have more love of it and knack for it than any one of her sex I’ve seen yet.  It really looks like a case of art for art’s sake, at times.  But you can’t tell.  They’re liable to get married at any moment, you know.  Look here, Beaton, when your natural-gas man gets to the picture-buying stage in his development, just remember your old friends, will you?  You know, Miss Vance, those new fellows have their regular stages.  They never know what to do with their money, but they find out that people buy pictures, at one point.  They shut your things up in their houses where nobody comes, and after a while they overeat themselves ­they don’t know what, else to do ­and die of apoplexy, and leave your pictures to a gallery, and then they see the light.  It’s slow, but it’s pretty sure.  Well, I see Beaton isn’t going to move on, as he ought to do; and so I must.  He always was an unconventional creature.”

Wetmore went away, but Beaton remained, and he outstayed several other people who came up to speak to Miss Vance.  She was interested in everybody, and she liked the talk of these clever literary, artistic, clerical, even theatrical people, and she liked the sort of court with which they recognized her fashion as well as her cleverness; it was very pleasant to be treated intellectually as if she were one of themselves, and socially as if she was not habitually the same, but a sort of guest in Bohemia, a distinguished stranger.  If it was Arcadia rather than Bohemia, still she felt her quality of distinguished stranger.  The flattery of it touched her fancy, and not her vanity; she had very little vanity.  Beaton’s devotion made the same sort of appeal; it was not so much that she liked him as she liked being the object of his admiration.  She was a girl of genuine sympathies, intellectual rather than sentimental.  In fact, she was an intellectual person, whom qualities of the heart saved from being disagreeable, as they saved her on the other hand from being worldly or cruel in her fashionableness.  She had read a great many books, and had ideas about them, quite courageous and original ideas; she knew about pictures ­she had been in Wetmore’s class; she was fond of music; she was willing to understand even politics; in Boston she might have been agnostic, but in New York she was sincerely religious; she was very accomplished; and perhaps it was her goodness that prevented her feeling what was not best in Beaton.

“Do you think,” she said, after the retreat of one of the comers and goers left her alone with him again, “that those young ladies would like me to call on them?”

“Those young ladies?” Beaton echoed.  “Miss Leighton and ­”

“No; I have been there with my aunt’s cards already.”

“Oh yes,” said Beaton, as if he had known of it; he admired the pluck and pride with which Alma had refrained from ever mentioning the fact to him, and had kept her mother from mentioning it, which must have been difficult.

“I mean the Miss Dryfooses.  It seems really barbarous, if nobody goes near them.  We do all kinds of things, and help all kinds of people in some ways, but we let strangers remain strangers unless they know how to make their way among us.”

“The Dryfooses certainly wouldn’t know how to make their way among you,” said Beaton, with a sort of dreamy absence in his tone.

Miss Vance went on, speaking out the process of reasoning in her mind, rather than any conclusions she had reached.  “We defend ourselves by trying to believe that they must have friends of their own, or that they would think us patronizing, and wouldn’t like being made the objects of social charity; but they needn’t really suppose anything of the kind.”

“I don’t imagine they would,” said Beaton.  “I think they’d be only too happy to have you come.  But you wouldn’t know what to do with each other, indeed, Miss Vance.”

“Perhaps we shall like each other,” said the girl, bravely, “and then we shall know.  What Church are they of?”

“I don’t believe they’re of any,” said Beaton.  “The mother was brought up a Dunkard.”

“A Dunkard?”

Beaton told what he knew of the primitive sect, with its early Christian polity, its literal interpretation of Christ’s ethics, and its quaint ceremonial of foot-washing; he made something picturesque of that.  “The father is a Mammon-worshipper, pure and simple.  I suppose the young ladies go to church, but I don’t know where.  They haven’t tried to convert me.”

“I’ll tell them not to despair ­after I’ve converted them,” said Miss Vance.  “Will you let me use you as a ‘point d’appui’, Mr. Beaton?”

“Any way you like.  If you’re really going to see them, perhaps I’d better make a confession.  I left your banjo with them, after I got it put in order.”

“How very nice!  Then we have a common interest already.”

“Do you mean the banjo, or ­”

“The banjo, decidedly.  Which of them plays?”

“Neither.  But the eldest heard that the banjo was ‘all the rage,’ as the youngest says.  Perhaps you can persuade them that good works are the rage, too.”

Beaton had no very lively belief that Margaret would go to see the Dryfooses; he did so few of the things he proposed that he went upon the theory that others must be as faithless.  Still, he had a cruel amusement in figuring the possible encounter between Margaret Vance, with her intellectual elegance, her eager sympathies and generous ideals, and those girls with their rude past, their false and distorted perspective, their sordid and hungry selfishness, and their faith in the omnipotence of their father’s wealth wounded by their experience of its present social impotence.  At the bottom of his heart he sympathized with them rather than with her; he was more like them.

People had ceased coming, and some of them were going.  Miss Vance said she must go, too, and she was about to rise, when the host came up with March; Beaton turned away.

“Miss Vance, I want to introduce Mr. March, the editor of ’Every Other Week.’  You oughtn’t to be restricted to the art department.  We literary fellows think that arm of the service gets too much of the glory nowadays.”  His banter was for Beaton, but he was already beyond ear-shot, and the host went on: 

Mr. March can talk with you about your favorite Boston.  He’s just turned his back on it.”

“Oh, I hope not!” said Miss Vance.  “I can’t imagine anybody voluntarily leaving Boston.”

“I don’t say he’s so bad as that,” said the host, committing March to her.  “He came to New York because he couldn’t help it ­like the rest of us.  I never know whether that’s a compliment to New York or not.”

They talked Boston a little while, without finding that they had common acquaintance there; Miss Vance must have concluded that society was much larger in Boston than she had supposed from her visits there, or else that March did not know many people in it.  But she was not a girl to care much for the inferences that might be drawn from such conclusions; she rather prided herself upon despising them; and she gave herself to the pleasure of being talked to as if she were of March’s own age.  In the glow of her sympathetic beauty and elegance he talked his best, and tried to amuse her with his jokes, which he had the art of tingeing with a little seriousness on one side.  He made her laugh; and he flattered her by making her think; in her turn she charmed him so much by enjoying what he said that he began to brag of his wife, as a good husband always does when another woman charms him; and she asked, Oh was Mrs. March there; and would he introduce her?

She asked Mrs. March for her address, and whether she had a day; and she said she would come to see her, if she would let her.  Mrs. March could not be so enthusiastic about her as March was, but as they walked home together they talked the girl over, and agreed about her beauty and her amiability.  Mrs. March said she seemed very unspoiled for a person who must have been so much spoiled.  They tried to analyze her charm, and they succeeded in formulating it as a combination of intellectual fashionableness and worldly innocence.  “I think,” said Mrs. March, “that city girls, brought up as she must have been, are often the most innocent of all.  They never imagine the wickedness of the world, and if they marry happily they go through life as innocent as children.  Everything combines to keep them so; the very hollowness of society shields them.  They are the loveliest of the human race.  But perhaps the rest have to pay too much for them.”

“For such an exquisite creature as Miss Vance,” said March, “we couldn’t pay too much.”

A wild laughing cry suddenly broke upon the air at the street-crossing in front of them.  A girl’s voice called out:  “Run, run, Jen!  The copper is after you.”  A woman’s figure rushed stumbling across the way and into the shadow of the houses, pursued by a burly policeman.

“Ah, but if that’s part of the price?”

They went along fallen from the gay spirit of their talk into a silence which he broke with a sigh.  “Can that poor wretch and the radiant girl we left yonder really belong to the same system of things?  How impossible each makes the other seem!”