Miss Bart’s arrival had been welcomed with an uncritical friendliness that first irritated her pride and then brought her to a sharp sense of her own situation—of the place in life which, for the moment, she must accept and make the best of. These people knew her story—of that her first long talk with Carry Fisher had left no doubt: she was publicly branded as the heroine of a “queer” episode; but instead of shrinking from her as her own friends had done, they received her without question into the easy promiscuity of their lives. They swallowed her past as easily as they did Miss Anstell’s, and with no apparent sense of any difference in the size of the mouthful; all they asked was that she should—in her own way, for they recognized a diversity of gifts—contribute as much to the general amusement as that graceful actress, whose talents, when off the stage, were of the most varied order. Lily felt at once that any tendency to be “stuck-up,” to mark a sense of differences and distinctions, would be fatal to her continuance in the Gormer set. To be taken in on such terms—and into such a world!—was hard enough to the lingering pride in her; but she realized, with a pang of self-contempt, that to be excluded from it would, after all, be harder still. For almost at once she had felt the insidious charm of slipping back into a life where every material difficulty was smoothed away. The sudden escape from a stifling hotel in a dusty, deserted city to the space and luxury of a great country-house fanned by sea breezes had produced a state of moral lassitude agreeable enough after the nervous tension and physical discomfort of the past weeks. For the moment she must yield to the refreshment her senses craved; after that she would reconsider her situation and take counsel with her dignity. Her enjoyment of her surroundings was, indeed, tinged by the unpleasant consideration that she was accepting the hospitality and courting the approval of people she had disdained under other conditions. But she was growing less sensitive on such points: a hard glaze of indifference was fast forming over her delicacies and susceptibilities, and each concession to expediency hardened the surface a little more.

  On the Monday, when the party disbanded with uproarious adieux, the return to town threw into stronger relief the charms of the life she was leaving. The other guests were dispersing to take up the same existence in a different setting: some at Newport, some at Bar Harbor, some in the elaborate rusticity of an Adirondack camp. Even Gerty Farish, who welcomed Lily’s return with tender solicitude, would soon be preparing to join the aunt with whom she spent her summers on Lake George; only Lily herself remained without plan or purpose, stranded in a backwater of the great current of pleasure. But Carry Fisher, who had insisted on transporting her to her own house, where she herself was to perch for a day or two on the way to the Brys’ camp, came to the rescue with a new suggestion.

  “Look here, Lily, I’ll tell you what it is: I want you to take my place with Mattie Gormer this summer. They’re taking a party out to Alaska next month in their private car, and Mattie, who is the laziest woman alive, wants me to go with them and relieve her of the bother of arranging things; but the Brys want me too—oh, yes, we’ve made it up; didn’t I tell you?—and, to put it frankly, though I like the Gormers best, there’s more profit for me in the Brys. The fact is, they want to try Newport this summer, and if I can make it a success for them, they—well, they’ll make it a success for me.” Mrs. Fisher clasped her hands enthusiastically. “Do you know, Lily, the more I think of my idea the better I like it, quite as much for you as for myself. The Gormers have both taken a tremendous fancy to you, and the trip to Alaska is—well—the very thing I should want for you just at present.”

  Miss Bart lifted her eyes with a keen glance. “To take me out of my friends’ way, you mean?” she said quietly; and Mrs. Fisher responded with a deprecating kiss: “To keep you out of their sight till they realize how much they miss you.”

  Miss Bart went with the Gormers to Alaska; and the expedition, if it did not produce the effect anticipated by her friend, had at least the negative advantage of removing her from the fiery centre of criticism and discussion. Gerty Farish had opposed the plan with all the energy of her somewhat inarticulate nature. She had even offered to give up her visit to Lake George and remain in town with Miss Bart if the latter would renounce her journey, but Lily could disguise her real distaste for this plan under a sufficiently valid reason.

  “You dear innocent, don’t you see,” she protested, “that Carry is quite right, and that I must take up my usual life and go about among people as much as possible? If my old friends choose to believe lies about me I shall have to make new ones, that’s all; and you know beggars mustn’t be choosers. Not that I don’t like Mattie Gormer—I do like her: she’s kind and honest and unaffected; and don’t you suppose I feel grateful to her for making me welcome at a time when, as you’ve yourself seen, my own family have unanimously washed their hands of me?”

  Gerty shook her head, mutely unconvinced. She felt not only that Lily was cheapening herself by making use of an intimacy she would never have cultivated from choice, but that in drifting back now to her former manner of life she was forfeiting her last chance of ever escaping from it. Gerty had but an obscure conception of what Lily’s actual experience had been, but its consequences had established a lasting hold on her pity since the memorable night when she had offered up her own secret hope to her friend’s extremity. To characters like Gerty’s, such a sacrifice constitutes a moral claim on the part of the person in whose behalf it has been made. Having once helped Lily, she must continue to help her; and helping her, must believe in her, because faith is the main-spring of such natures. But even if Miss Bart, after her renewed taste of the amenities of life, could have returned to the barrenness of a New York August, mitigated only by poor Gerty’s presence, her worldly wisdom would have counselled her against such an act of abnegation. She knew that Carry Fisher was right: that an opportune absence might be the first step toward rehabilitation and that, at any rate, to linger on in town out of season was a fatal admission of defeat.

  From the Gormers’ tumultuous progress across their native continent she returned with an altered view of her situation. The renewed habit of luxury—the daily waking to an assured absence of care and presence of material ease—gradually blunted her appreciation of these values and left her more conscious of the void they could not fill. Mattie Gormer’s undiscriminating good nature and the slap-dash sociability of her friends, who treated Lily precisely as they treated each other—all these characteristic notes of difference began to wear upon her endurance and the more she saw to criticize in her companions, the less justification she found for making use of them. The longing to get back to her former surroundings hardened to a fixed idea; but with the strengthening of her purpose came the inevitable perception that to attain it, she must exact fresh concessions from her pride. These, for the moment, took the unpleasant form of continuing to cling to her hosts after their return from Alaska. Little as she was in the key of their milieu, her immense social facility, her long habit of adapting herself to others without suffering her own outline to be blurred, the skilled manipulation of all the polished implements of her craft, had won for her an important place in the Gormer group. If their resonant hilarity could never be hers, she contributed a note of easy elegance more valuable to Mattie Gormer than the louder passages of the band. Sam Gormer and his special cronies stood indeed a little in awe of her; but Mattie’s following, headed by Paul Morpeth, made her feel that they prized her for the very qualities they most conspicuously lacked. If Morpeth, whose social indolence was as great as his artistic activity, had abandoned himself to the easy current of the Gormer existence, where the minor exactions of politeness were unknown or ignored, and a man could either break his engagements, or keep them in a painting-jacket and slippers, he still preserved his sense of differences and his appreciation of graces he had no time to cultivate. During the preparations for the Brys’ tableaux he had been immensely struck by Lily’s plastic possibilities—“not the face: too self-controlled for expression; but the rest of her: gad, what a model she’d make!”—and though his abhorrence of the world in which he had seen her was too great for him to think of seeking her there, he was fully alive to the privilege of having her to look at and listen to while he lounged in Mattie Gormer’s dishevelled drawing-room.

  Lily had thus formed, in the tumult of her surroundings, a little nucleus of friendly relations which mitigated the crudeness of her course in lingering with the Gormers after their return. Nor was she without pale glimpses of her own world, especially since the breaking-up of the Newport season had set the social current once more toward Long Island. Kate Corby, whose tastes made her as promiscuous as Carry Fisher was rendered by her necessities, occasionally descended on the Gormers, where, after a first stare of surprise, she took Lily’s presence almost too much as a matter of course. Mrs. Fisher, too, appearing frequently in the neighbourhood, drove over to impart her experiences and give Lily what she called the latest report from the weather-bureau; and the latter, who had never directly invited her confidence, could yet talk with her more freely than with Gerty Farish, in whose presence it was impossible even to admit the existence of much that Mrs. Fisher conveniently took for granted.

  Mrs. Fisher, moreover, had no embarrassing curiosity. She did not wish to probe the inwardness of Lily’s situation, but simply to view it from the outside and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the succinct remark: “You must marry as soon as you can.”

  Lily uttered a faint laugh—for once Mrs. Fisher lacked originality. “Do you mean, like Gerty Farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of ‘a good man’s love’?”

  “No, I don’t think either of my candidates would answer to that description,” said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection.

  “Either? Are there actually two?”

  “Well, perhaps I ought to say one and a half—for the moment.”

  Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. “Other things being equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband; who is he?”

  “Don’t fly out at me till you hear my reasons—George Dorset.”

  “Oh—” Lily murmured reproachfully; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on unrebuffed. “Well, why not? They had a few weeks’ honeymoon when they first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a mad-woman, and George’s powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They’re at their place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly party—no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)—and after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk and told me the end would have to come soon.”

  Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. “As far as that goes, the end will never come; Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him.”

  Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. “Not if he has any one else to turn to! Yes, that’s just what it comes to: the poor creature can’t stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm.” She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from Lily’s: “He wouldn’t stay with her ten minutes if he knew—”

  “Knew?” Miss Bart repeated.

  “What you must, for instance—with the opportunities you’ve had! If he had positive proof, I mean—”

  Lily interrupted her with a deep blush of displeasure. “Please let us drop the subject, Carry; it’s too odious to me.” And to divert her companion’s attention, she added with an attempt at lightness: “And your second candidate? We must not forget him.”

  Mrs. Fisher echoed her laugh. “I wonder if you’ll cry out just as loud if I say—Sim Rosedale?”

  Miss Bart did not cry out; she sat silent, gazing thoughtfully at her friend. The suggestion, in truth, gave expression to a possibility which, in the last weeks, had more than once recurred to her; but after a moment she said carelessly: “Mr. Rosedale wants a wife who can establish him in the bosom of the Van Osburghs and Trenors.”

  Mrs. Fisher caught her up eagerly. “And so you could—with his money! Don’t you see how beautifully it would work out for you both?”

  “I don’t see any way of making him see it,” Lily returned with a laugh intended to dismiss the subject.

  But in reality it lingered with her long after Mrs. Fisher had taken leave. She had seen very little of Rosedale since her annexation by the Gormers, for he was still steadily bent on penetrating to the inner Paradise from which she was now excluded, but once or twice, when nothing better offered, he had turned up for a Sunday, and on these occasions he had left her in no doubt as to his view of her situation. That he still admired her was, more than ever, offensively evident; for in the Gormer circle, where he expanded as in his native element, there were no puzzling conventions to check the full expression of his approval. But it was in the quality of his admiration that she read his shrewd estimate of her case. He enjoyed letting the Gormers see that he had known “Miss Lily”—she was “Miss Lily” to him now—before they had had the faintest social existence, enjoyed more especially impressing Paul Morpeth with the distance to which their intimacy dated back. But he let it be felt that that intimacy was a mere ripple on the surface of a rushing social current, the kind of relaxation which a man of large interests and manifold preoccupations permits himself in his hours of ease.

  The necessity of accepting this view of their past relation and of meeting it in the key of pleasantry prevalent among her new friends was deeply humiliating to Lily. But she dared less than ever to quarrel with Rosedale. She suspected that her rejection rankled among the most unforgettable of his rebuffs, and the fact that he knew something of her wretched transaction with Trenor, and was sure to put the basest construction on it, seemed to place her hopelessly in his power. Yet at Carry Fisher’s suggestion a new hope had stirred in her. Much as she disliked Rosedale, she no longer absolutely despised him. For he was gradually attaining his object in life, and that, to Lily, was always less despicable than to miss it. With the slow, unalterable persistency which she had always felt in him, he was making his way through the dense mass of social antagonisms. Already his wealth and the masterly use he had made of it were giving him an enviable prominence in the world of affairs, and placing Wall Street under obligations which only Fifth Avenue could repay. In response to these claims, his name began to figure on municipal committees and charitable boards; he appeared at banquets to distinguished strangers; and his candidacy at one of the fashionable clubs was discussed with diminishing opposition. He had figured once or twice at the Trenor dinners and had learned to speak with just the right note of disdain of the big Van Osburgh crushes; and all he now needed was a wife whose affiliations would shorten the last tedious steps of his ascent. It was with that object that, a year earlier, he had fixed his affections on Miss Bart; but in the interval he had mounted nearer to the goal, while she had lost the power to abbreviate the remaining steps of the way. All this she saw with the clearness of vision that came to her in moments of despondency. It was success that dazzled her; she could distinguish facts plainly enough in the twilight of failure. And the twilight, as she now sought to pierce it, was gradually lighted by a faint spark of reassurance. Under the utilitarian motive of Rosedale’s wooing she had felt, clearly enough, the heat of personal inclination. She would not have detested him so heartily had she not known that he dared to admire her. What, then, if the passion persisted, though the other motive had ceased to sustain it? She had never even tried to please him; he had been drawn to her in spite of her manifest disdain. What if she now chose to exert the power which, even in its passive state, he had felt so strongly? What if she made him marry her for love, now that he had no other reason for marrying her?

  VI

  As became persons of their rising consequence, the Gormers were engaged in building a country-house on Long Island; and it was a part of Miss Bart’s duty to attend her hostess on frequent visits of inspection to the new estate. There, while Mrs. Gormer plunged into problems of lighting and sanitation, Lily had leisure to wander in the bright autumn air along the tree-fringed bay to which the land declined. Little as she was addicted to solitude, there had come to be moments when it seemed a welcome escape from the empty noises of her life. She was weary of being swept passively along a current of pleasure and business in which she had no share, weary of seeing other people pursue amusement and squander money while she felt herself of no more account among them than an expensive toy in the hands of a spoiled child.

  It was in this frame of mind that, striking back from the shore one morning into the windings of an unfamiliar lane, she came suddenly upon the figure of George Dorset. The Dorset place was in the immediate neighbourhood of the Gormers’ newly acquired estate, and in her motor-flights thither with Mrs. Gormer, Lily had caught one or two passing glimpses of the couple; but they moved in so different an orbit that she had not considered the possibility of a direct encounter.

  Dorset, swinging along with bent head, in moody abstraction, did not see Miss Bart till he was close upon her; but the sight, instead of bringing him to a halt, as she had half-expected, sent him toward her with an eagerness which found expression in his opening words.

  “Miss Bart! You’ll shake hands, won’t you? I’ve been hoping to meet you; I should have written to you if I’d dared.” His face, with its tossed red hair and straggling moustache, had a driven uneasy look, as though life had become an unceasing race between himself and the thoughts at his heels.