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2 Dickie, having adjusted his tie to his satisfaction, turned away from the glass with an air of self-contentment.

Then the dining-room doors were opened and Nicholas Schuyler entered the room. How rare his kind to-day!—a man of breeding, born to wear "the grand old name of gentleman," in quiet contrast to the vulgarity of modern life. Even Dickie realized the distinction that marked the bearing of this gray-haired representative of the old school.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, if I have kept you waiting," Mr. Schuyler said, softly.

The little German jumped to his feet and bowed with exaggerated gesture.

"Sir, I am the great Von Bulowitz. I come so quick because, unless I fix myself just so, I cannot play. I am so sensitive as my violin."

"You honor me, sir, by playing in my house," answered the host, courteously. The great Von Bulowitz placed his hand to his heart and bowed again.

Two younger men had followed Nicholas Schuyler from the dining-room. One was Schuyler Ainslee, his nephew, a frank, careless young man of twenty-five or more, who had drifted through the world, accepting the good things of life as his due and overcoming the disagreeable by the exuberance of youthful spirits. The other was Norman Wendell, his most intimate friend—a young painter, in whose pale, delicate face was an expression of earnestness, a desire to conquer in the struggle with the world. The two were friends because of their opposite natures, that were like positive and negative currents.

Dickie Willing did not notice the newcomers, but, drawing Mr. Schuyler aside, he whispered, confidentially:

"Awful cranks, these musical Johnnies. Had a devil of a time getting him here. Deserve some credit, what?"

"Take cash, Dickie. Nobody'd give you credit," laughed young Ainslee at his elbow.

"But don't take it all," put in Wendell. "Leave some for Von Bulowitz."

"I say, fellows, don't chaff," protested Dickie. "Can't starve; got to work, you know."

"That's right, Dickie, work everybody you can," continued Ainslee, and he and Wendell smiled broadly at Dickie's discomfiture.

Mr. Schuyler gave his nephew a glance of disapproval, and, turning to the musician, said, quietly, "I thought the back drawing-room would be the best place for the music. You see, there'll only be a very few people."

"Vat! only a few peoples to hear me play?" protested the little German. "Me, the great Von Bulowitz!"

"You don't understand," said Dickie, hurriedly. "A few people are so much smarter."

"Yes," laughed Ainslee. "You see, the way to keep your social position in New York is to give a party and leave out half the people you know. Those who are there think they are society; those who are not immediately invite you, to prove they are not outsiders."

"Tut, tut, my boy," protested his uncle. "My house is small, but I'm old-fashioned. I hold to the old ways. Give me New York as it was."

"And give me New York as it is, with all its glitter and bigness," exclaimed the nephew. "Give me the millionaires, too, with their vulgar wealth—they know how to spend it; give me the women—heartless, if you like—they know how to make themselves attractive. I am modern to my finger tips, and proud of it."

"What heresy!" exclaimed Mr. Schuyler, in disgust. "It's enough to make your ancestors turn in their graves."

"Yes? Well, it won't hurt them to move a little," replied young Ainslee, glancing patronizingly at the portraits on the walls.

"Come, Herr von Bulowitz," said Nicholas Schuyler, turning away. "My nephew is incorrigible. It's the Ainslee blood. His father wasn't one of us."

The German shrugged his shoul-