The house was one of those new and majestic structures near the Park. It occupied a corner, sweeping far backward from Fifth Avenue into an adjacent street. It had an almost imperial amplitude, and was a building in which no lordly or pleasurable detail seemed to have been overlooked. The conservatory, whose spacious interior wooed through breadths of glass its kindest warmth from the churlish winter sunshine, was of refreshing temperature after the heated rooms beyond, while its masses of leafing or blooming plants loaded the air with delightful odors. A few people were strolling about the cool courts, as Claire and Thurston now entered them. The entertainment of to-day was a kind of house-warming; the Vanvelsors, in current metropolitan phrase, were old people, but their present mansion was new in a decisive sense; they had migrated hither from a residence in Bond Street, where they had dwelt for forty years or more. The push of the younger generation, left with inherited millions, had thus architecturally asserted itself. Few of their guests knew the ways of their changed and palatial home. But Claire knew them; she had dined in this imposing abode not less than a fortnight ago. There were many bearers of precious Dutch names who had known the Vanvelsors for many decades; but Claire had been preferred to hosts of these nice-lineaged legitimists. She was the fashion; other people were paying homage to her; the younger Vanvelsors liked everything that was the fashion; they had paid homage, too. "We can find a seat," Claire said to her companion; "the place is not full, as you see; we might sit yonder, in those two vacant chairs--that is, if you care to sit; I do; I am tired." It was not until they were both seated, with glossy tropical leaves touching their heads, that Thurston answered:-- "You say you are tired. That might mean a little or a great deal. Which does it mean?" Claire responded with a question, looking at him fixedly. "Why did you write me that letter?" she said. "Did it offend you?" he asked. "No and yes. You might not have reproached me until you knew more of the real truth." Thurston stroked his gray mustache. "I think I knew all the truth," he said. "I know it now, at least." "Your sister has told you," Claire retorted, with speed. "Yes and no," he responded, not mocking her own recent words, yet leaving a distinct impression that he had half repeated them. "You forget that I have seen you reigning on your new throne." "Let us be candid," said Claire. "Your note was almost a sneer." He slowly shook his head. "It was a regret." "You think I might have done greater things." "I think you might have done better things." "You admit that I have achieved success?"