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"WE'LL drive?" said young Chalkley, anxiously, halting on the steps of the Continental Hotel. He had Mr. Burgess, the English magazinist, in charge. Oh, drive, of course!" beckoning to a hackman. If heaven had but willed him in this crisis of fate a buggy of his own—a team of any sort! This Londoner, no doubt, dwelt in an atmosphere of rank where coroneted chariots and footmen were every-day matters. It is true, Chalkley hired a trotting-horse for an hour per day, and he would willingly have mounted Burgess upon it, and run behind, like an Egyptian donkey boy, if the thing had been practicable. As it was, he had to call a hack.

"Tut, no," said Burgess, "I vote to walk."

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"Why, certainly," with a reassured little giggle. Why, I forgot what tremendous fellows you English are with your constitutionals, and so on." He looked doubtfully down as they walked, at the little wiry man beside him, with his foxy face and red beard. Certainly, this was not his ideal of bluff John Bull; but none the less did he feel that the New World was on trial to-night before the Old. Elsewhere, this judge could inspect its institutions and politics; but Parr Chalkley felt it had fallen to his lot to present its social aspects.

"Here you have the Quaker element," waving his hand up the broad street, asleep at that early hour of the evening, the red brick fronts and marble steps distinct in the moonlight. "Arch street. Nobody, of course, in society lives north of Market street. We have our distinctions of rank here, Mr. Burgess, as in older countries. Still, it is possible to visit in some houses in Arch."

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well-bred people are the same the world over," he said, politely," and family parties are apt to be monotonous, as you say."

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No, but really you know!" protested Burgess. "Your scenery is very nice indeed. It lacks the charm of history of course-what one might call the sauce of Age. But it serves the better as a background for my articles. We, Dickens, Kingsley and the rest of us, have used up all the back-grounds: Europe, the Nile, Australia. I think I've had a very lucky 'find' here. I mean to produce some very pretty effects in my papers with your Rocky Mountains, Yosemite and all those, eh? This is Miss Derby's street?" as they turned a corner. "It looks respectable. Nothing Bohemian here."


"Oh, there are no Bohemians in Philadelphia," energetically; there is no room for them. No more than for cheap weeds in these grass plats. No, no, sir. You must not think of Jenny--of Miss Derby as anything but a very respectable girl. Yes, and a very sweet girl too," he added, but with a quaver as though knowing that he put Society at defiance.

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But clever?" Burgess's red-rimmed eyes were twinkling again. "Now come. American ladies are all oppressively clever, you know. 'Have you read my last tragedy?' says one. Another thinks it more a woman's work to dissect babies than to suckle them. The very school-girls attack you with their views of John Stuart Mill; and this Miss Derby, still in her teens you say, lives alone, and has her Saturday evenings.'

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"Don't know," said Parr, turning his whitish eyes full on Burgess; "I never thought Jenny Derby clever." He was stolidly perplexed. Undoubtedly his companion was not what he had been taught to think well-bred. "Read her last tragedy'? Why it's the Lambs he means, where he stayed in New York!" thought Parr with the look of an amazed ox. ButIt must be a shock," he said gently, a moment after, "to plunge into our social chaos

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after the culture and refinement of England." He hoped, however, that Burgess would see how little he, a Philadelphian of the Philadelphians, had to do with social chaoses. He was going to London in the fall, and had planned that his new friend should introduce him into the very arcana of fashion. Burgess, meanwhile, was eying the big young fellow shrewdly; the heavy features, complexion like a girl's, fair Dundreary whiskers, foppish clothes, the rose in his buttonhole, skittish walk all good points for a comic picture of a Philadelphian for his book. Since he came to this country he usually sketched his host's face on his thumb-nail whenever he was invited out to dine, and so was accumulating a good stock of figures to front his backgrounds." The truth was, Burgess, being the son of a green-grocer at home, knew nothing of society beyond the acquaintance of a few men in inferior clubs, and had to make the best of his chance while he was here.

"No, Jenny Derby's not clever," maundered Parr, going back, as was his habit, to pick up a subject and wring more talk out of it. "She's knocked around a good deal for her age, though old Derby was cranky; they lived in Italy when she was a little thing, and he went into spiritualism and then into Italian freedom; seeker after truth-American Patriot-all that sort of thing. Jenny, it seems, was a pet with some people worth knowing: Mrs. Browning, Mazzini, and so on. Four or five years later Derby was sent from here to Germany on some Reform Committee: Peace-Colonization, heaven knows what, and takes her with him, and they lunch with that bishop and dine with this duke -all humanitarians."

"Tolerably sharp practice in the old.


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"Not at all. Derby was not sharp. Derby," deliberately, "was as little sharp as any man I know. But it gave Jenny a chance to see life, and she made deuced good use of her eyes. It's astonishing the use she always makes of them!" growing animated. Now that girl's on two or three papers. Writes book notices, and a woman's column. And that European experience of hers is all her material. Same thing over and over; roast, hash, and ragout; you have it again week after week, and, 'pon my word, you don't recognize it." "I know that kind of woman. And these receptions?"

"Oh, they don't deserve such a large name as that. The old man left her in a Quaker boarding-house when he died, and they give her the use of a vacant room there. So she says to one friend and another, 'Don't come here through the week you only are in my way. Come on Saturday evening. That's your Sabbath, and mine.' Newspaper people, you understand. So we go, to see Jenny, or each other. Sometimes she gives us tea, and dry toast; sometimes a supper from Augustin's, if she's in funds; but you never know what's coming. Oh, it's very nice indeed. Here we are," turning up the marble steps of one of the interminable red houses and ringing the bell.

They entered a long hall, bare but for the gas flaring and the flying Naiads on the old wall paper: passing up a flight or two of stairs, and into a room, wide, high, and softly lighted. Burgess's little eyes glanced here and there. Floor bare and stained in imitation of walnut, tables covered with warm-colored cloth, scattered about, with men at them, playing chess, and smoking, and women sewing. The whole affair was notably unlike any social gathering which Burgess had ever seen, to which women were admitted, and smacked much more of the club than the drawing-room. Yet men and women were quiet, low-voiced, and, if they had not been so eager and interested, would have satisfied his notions of good-breeding.

"Why these are pictures," he cried, with an involuntary start, going up to the wall. "But what a combination! A Gérôme, a Bonheur, and-surely I am not mistakenthis is a Meissonier?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I'll ask. This is only a tea-and-toast night. I see the cups yonder."


She has the walls the proper tint for them, too. But how can a woman enough money by scribbling for the daily journals to buy such pictures as these?"

"She does not buy them," said a schoolgirl in an ill-fitting blue merino, who was looking at the Meissonier. She turned to Burgess, thinking he had asked her the question. "These are part of the Lingard collection which was brought to town for sale."

Burgess bowed respectfully. "And Miss Derby hires them for her reception?"

"No. Mr. Lingard imports them twice a year, and he hangs the best here on private view. The critics and press reporters

are sure to see them to-night. Lingard had the walls stained for her. It pays him. 'Tis Monsieur Puff, my lord, coming round the corner,'" she quoted, laughing| and glancing up at Chalkley.

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And Miss Derby allows her walls to be used as advertisements?" He spoke to Parr, but the little girl replied:

"If it makes them pleasant to her guests, why not? She is a penniless little wretch, not able to put on wall paper. She allows Mr. Chalkley here to pay for that wood fire, and every pianist to bring his own instrument. It is a sort of neutral ground this, for artists and their critics to meet. There is John Shively, the publisher, coming in at the door. He will tell you in five minutes more how many millions he is worth. There are half a dozen other kings here, in sugar or cotton. What would they care for Jane Derby or her dry toast and tea if they did not know that they would see better pictures and hear better music here than in any house in town?"

Burgess turned to Parr: "Yet you told me this woman was neither clever nor sharp ?" Chalkley stood between the two, red, bulky, stammering. The little girl laughed good-humoredly, and held out both her fat hands deprecatingly: "Don't go any farther, Mr. Burgess. I am Jenny Derby. I thought you knew." Seeing his embarrassment she covered it adroitly by leading him to the fire. Here is a seat from which you can take notes. I advised Mr. Chalkley to bring you here. Among these odds and ends of American society you may find a point or two for your book or lecture on us, whichever it is to be."


"Neither, I assure you. Yet I might take you as the typical American girl, I suppose, Miss Derby?" staring at her through his half-shut red eyelashes.

"By no means," quietly. "I am outside of all orthodox lines. But women can go on to man's ground with safety further here than in England. Kit, pray give your chair to Mr. Chalkley. I want you." She spoke to a man who sat by the fire playing with a dog. He rose leisurely, without looking at the newcomers, and followed her.

Mr. Burgess looked after her eagerly. "I don't wonder I mistook her for a school-girl. She has the unformed figure and manner of a girl of fifteen; but there's a cool aplomb about her, and a speculation in those gray eyes that show she has seen a good deal of the world."

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"Pon my soul," cried Chalkley, with sudden candor, "I'm afraid she was in the right, Mr. Burgess. She's the honestest creature alive. She is just as blunt about your faults as her own.'

"Who comes here?" hastily turning the subject.

Parr shrugged his big shoulders. "Shively, the publisher. A new man. Advertised himself into a fortune, and now he's trying to advertise himself into society. I can't present you. I don't know him," as he stood before them.

But Shively smiled on him benignly from his lank and bony height. From his shining shoes to his long hatchet-faced head with its curling ruffle of red whiskers and hair, he was one smile, affable, patronizing, aggressively innocent. Parr turned off with a distant bow, while Shively held out both hands to the Englishman.

"Mr. Burgess! Let me name myself! John Shively. You may have heard of my publications. Small things, small things! But they help me to aid my fellow-creatures, and for what else, in God's name, are we here? But you! I know you well, Mr. Burgess-through your works. We are old friends. Comrades in spirit, I may say, without being sentimental."

"I do not doubt it, Mr. Shively."

"And so you are going to write us up? Ah, you young fellows, you must each have your fling at us Americans. But we have grown more pachydermatous than in the days of Mrs. Trollope and Dickens. Seriously, Mr. Shively growing suddenly grave, "the better men of the two nations have lately, as I may say, struck hands and brought their countries into accord. My friend, the Earl of Dundas, remarked, when he was dining with me the other day: 'We are but one clan, after all, Shively.' Prince of Wales, (and a fine young fellow he is, by the way,) made a casual observation to me, when he was here, tending to the same effect. I do what I can to foster that brotherhood of feeling between America and all other nations. I had a Russian prince at my house yesterday, quite a cultivated man, too. It was really surprising to see how well informed he was on many subjects. You must come up and see my


little place, by the way, Mr. Burgess. Only worth your notice as an example of what industry may do for a man who begins penniless in this country. Why the parlor curtains alone stood me in twelve thousand, and that in gold, sir. My wife will have nothing but point lace for her pillow slips. These women have their whims you know, so I indulge her. Little points like that in your book will whet your readers' appetite for heavier statistics. And I began as an errand boy. Yes, sir. An er-rand boy."

"So I have heard." "Ah, indeed? Well, John Shively is tolerably well known, and he never denied his origin. I strive to uplift the class from which I came, Mr. Burgess. My employés have a bank of their own, and a private graveyard on my grounds where they can be buried as comfortably as though they were millionaires. Ah yes! little things, but they help our fellow creatures, and what else in God's name are we here for? Those fellows, the press reporters, look upon me as a godsend. You and your benefactions keep us in items, Mr. Shively,' they often say," drawing down his glossy shirt-cuffs.

Who are these women, if I may ask?" interrupted Burgess, glancing around.

"Ah, women? None from our old families, Mr. Burgess. None of the class to which my young friend Parr Chalkley belongs. I do not bring my daughter here, as you perceive. Though little Miss Derby is very nice-very nice! And these persons are all respectable. Ah yes, quite so. Those Quaker ladies with white hair are old Anti-Slavery leaders. That young female in the corner, short, aggressive, you see, is a lecturer, I think; but really one cannot be familiar with all orders in a society so uncertain and chaotic as ours. That lovely creature with the mass of reddish hair tumbling about her shoulders is the famous actress, Devereux; fine woman, Mr. Burgess."

Mr. Burgess lifted his eye-glass. "Yes, she is," he said, after a critical pause. "But how does a busy man like yourself spare time to come here?"

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Shively held up his white pulpy hand to his mouth. Entre nous, it is business. I find this kind of people, artists, editors, and the like, much cheaper when you take them unawares out of their offices-off guard, as one might say. Just now I want a series of articles written, half scientific, half popular, for which I am willing to pay

liberally. I know but one young fellow capable of doing it, and of course I'll try to get him on as easy terms as possible. I came to find him to-night, but he is not here. A most brilliant young scamp, moody and unreliable, like all your men of genius.

"Who is he? I have heard of him, no doubt."

"Ah yes.

One of the most promising men of the day, Niel Goddard. Is it possible Miss Derby hears me? She turned as I named him. She would advise him against my offer. She has notably a sharp eye for the pennies. Harte, where is your comrade, Goddard, now?"

Burgess turned quickly. Of Harte, he had heard-a figure painter, beginning to be known in Europe as here for the delicacy of his touch as well as the subtle grace of his meaning. He was a solid, squat, good-natured looking fellow, wearing spectacles, and with black brows which met over his nose.


Not in town. He is down on the coast, somewhere, studying the effect of sunset on the neap tide, for a marine he is going to paint."

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Absurd! He is not going to waste his time in painting?"

"If Niel Goddard chose to take brush and palette seriously in hand," said Harte, with some heat, "none of us could touch him. But he is lazy. That inevitable vis inertia of genius, you know."

"Now Harte," said Shively, as he turned away, "has no genius whatever. But the most indomitable endurance! Son of a butcher, sir! Chose the canvas instead of a meat-block, and has starved and drudged and worked his way for ten years, until he has done some neat things.'


You will wake up some day and find in Harte a great painter," said Burgess. "We begin to know him in England."

"But if you could see Goddard's studies! Just a line, here and there. But when you come to talk of power!————"

"What has Goddard done? Written or painted?"

"Done? done? Oh, if you put it that way, but little as yet, sir. Like all real artists, his studies will be severe. But as for promise, I know no man in America to equal him."


Miss Derby, followed by the big fairhaired man whom she called Kit, went in

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