against Central Park and the millionaires! Never, sir, never!"
Fortunately the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Van Rensselaer Bleeker saved the situation, else Mr. Schuyler's indignation might have exceeded the bounds of politeness. As it was, he turned away from the young stockbroker abruptly, and with a very red face.
Monty Dressler winked at his wife. "Peppery old cock," he laughed. Mrs. Dressler did not reply. She was angry because Schuyler Ainslee had failed to see her. He was still gazing into the fire, lost in contemplation of the immediate future.
"Well, upon my word," she said to herself, "if he thinks he can treat me like that!"
Renée Dressler was a woman in whom sentiment was sterilized. She looked upon love much as a game of confidence into which men were to be deliberately decoyed by a few apparently successful wins, and then mercilessly robbed of their affections by the most subtle methods of scientific play. Her beauty was of a fleshly type, made stunning by wavy folds of Titian hair, and by deep brown eyes, that had a dreamy, mystical way of looking into men's souls; but her mouth was cold and hard—and a woman's mouth means everything. Men called her figure "divine," but as it was suggestive of most that is earthly, the heavenly attribute seemed ill-chosen. She was, nevertheless, a strikingly beautiful creature, perfectly groomed, and perfectly confident of her power to fascinate mankind.
As for "Monty" Dressler, people endured him because of his wife, and she endured him because of his complaisance. He had the single advantage of being well born, if one can disassociate birth from breeding.
Mrs. Dressler took up a few photographs from the table and examined them abstractedly, meanwhile casting an occasional side glance in the direction of Schuyler Ainslee. Monty approached her quietly.
"There's Ainslee," he whispered. "He wants security for that loan, and I can't give it. Watch your chance and talk him over."
Even Renée Dressler was shocked at such brutal candor. "I've half a mind to tell him you never intend to pay," she answered, coldly.
"Well, I like that," sneered Monty. "Suppose I should play the injured husband?"
"At least I should be rid of you."
"Hush!" he whispered, "he's looking." Then he stole away quickly, while his wife arranged a bow of ribbons on her gown with apparent unconsciousness of Ainslee's approach.
Schuyler came toward her leisurely. He had awakened from his revery, but his lack of eagerness to greet her annoyed her exceedingly.
"I wondered if you were going to speak to me," she said, resentfully, as he extended his hand.
"You may be surprised," he laughed, "but I was actually thinking."
"About me?"
"No, about matrimony."
"How very immoral!" she laughed, hiding her face behind her fan. Then they were interrupted by the arrival of the aggressive Mrs. Jones-Smythe and her simpering daughter, Mabel. Mrs. Jones-Smythe's voice was a bar to conversation in her immediate vicinity, so Schuyler and his companion sought refuge in a far-off corner.
"So good of you to come," said Mr. Schuyler, as he greeted the newcomers.
"And so good of you to ask us," answered Mrs. Jones-Smythe, with an empressement of manner that would have done honor to the cook of a Grand Duchess. "Mabel adores music, don’t you, dear?"
"Yes, mamma," replied the daughter, with a kittenish smile.
"You know Mabel plays Chopin charmingly," pursued the mother, much to the annoyance of her host, who had invited her only because the late Mr. Jones-Smythe had been his room-mate at college. "It will be such a treat for the dear child," she continued. "We gave up a dinner at
