He was astounded to find Catherine outdone by none in extravagant out-of-placeness of ostentation--as he regarded it. Day after day, night after night, she showed herself off to her friends and to the craning throngs of the promenade in a kaleidoscopic series of wonderful “creations.” And she insisted that he should always be in close attendance. As he sat beside her he heard the comments of the crowd--there was always a crowd in front of Longview’s box: “That’s the girl.”--“Yes, and the fellow beside her, with the eyeglass, he’s the Earl.”--“I don’t know how much--some say a million--some say two or three.”--“He looks dull, but then all Englishmen look that.”--“I’ll bet he could be a brute. Look what a heavy jaw he’s got.”--“She’ll be sick of him before she’s had him a year.” Did Catherine hear? he wondered. Apparently not. He never surprised in her face or manner a hint of consciousness of self or of being stared at and commented upon. “But she can’t avoid hearing,” he said to himself. “These asses are braying right in her ears. And why should she get herself up in all these clothes, if it ain’t to be stared at?” And, between performances, the performers in the Longview box dined in the palm garden at the Waldorf, with their acquaintances at the surrounding tables, and gossip of their engagement flying, and curious glances straying toward them over the tops of wine-glasses, and whispers and smiles--and Catherine soulful and unconscious. On Friday night, as they drove from the Waldorf to the Garden--she had given him her hand to hold under cover of the lap-robe--she said, with a sigh: “I’m so glad it’s nearly over. Only to-night and to-morrow night.” “Not to-morrow afternoon?” asked Frothingham. “Why do we miss a chance to exhibit?” “Only the servants and the children go to-morrow afternoon,” replied Catherine sweetly. “I’m worn out and sick of it all. So many go merely for self-display; so few of us, not to speak of those dreadful people in the promenade, care anything about the dear, beautiful, noble horses.” “Why look at horses,” said Honoria, “when there’s a human show that’s so much more interesting? It may be vulgar, but it’s amusing. I’m afraid my tastes are not refined.” Frothingham looked at her with the expression of a thirsty man who is having a glass of cold water. “That’s what I think,” said he. “And I’m fond of horses.” A faint sneer in his satirical drawl made Catherine give him a furtive glance of anxiety--was the worm thinking of turning? When they were in the box and the others were busy she said to him, in her tenderest tone: “You’re dreadfully bored by all this, aren’t you? And I thought it would give you pleasure for us to be together so much.” [Illustration: “_As if we were a pair of new chimpanzees in a zoo_”]