“And here is an old New York friend. Miss Garrison, Mr. Philip Quentin. You surely remember him, Miss Garrison,” said Lady Frances, with a peculiar gleam in her eye. For a second the young lady at Quentin's side exhibited surprise; a faint flush swept into her cheek, and then, with a rare smile, she extended her hand to the American.
“Of course, I remember him. Phil and I were playmates in the old days. Dear me, it seems a century ago,” she said.
“I cannot tell you how well the century has treated you,” he said, gallantly. “It has not been so kind to me.”
“Years are never unkind to men,” she responded. She smiled upon the adoring prince and turned again to Quentin. “Tell me about New York, Phil. Tell me about yourself.”
“I can only say that New York has grown larger and better, and that I have grown older and worse. Mrs. Garrison may doubt that I could possibly grow worse, but I have proof positive. I am dabbling in Wall street.”
“I can imagine nothing more reprehensible,” said Mrs. Garrison, amiably. Quentin swiftly renewed his opinion of the mother. That estimate coincided with the impression his youth had formed, and it was not far in the wrong. Here was the mother with a hope loftier than a soul. Purse-proud, ambitious, condescending to a degree—a woman who would achieve what she set out to do at all hazards. Less than fifty, still handsome, haughty and arrogant, descended through a long line of American aristocracy, calm, resourceful, heartless. For fifteen years a widow, with no other object than to live at the top and to marry her only child into a realm far beyond the dreams of other American mothers. Millions had she to flaunt in the faces of an astonished, marveling people. Clever, tactful, aggressive, capable of winning where others had failed, this American mother was respected, even admired, in the class to which she had climbed. Here was the woman who had won her way into continental society as have few of her countrywomen. To none save a cold, discerning man from her own land was she transparent. Lord Bob, however, had a faint conception of her aims, her capacity.
As they walked on, Quentin scarcely took his eyes from Miss Garrison's face. He was wearing down the surprise that the sweetheart of his boyhood had
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