Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. “When do you go out on the road again?” he inquired. “Pretty soon,” said Drouet. “Haven’t seen much of you this trip,” said Hurstwood. “Well, I’ve been busy,” said Drouet. They talked some few minutes on general topics. “Say,” said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, “I want you to come out some evening.” “Out where?” inquired Hurstwood. “Out to my house, of course,” said Drouet, smiling. Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: “Certainly; glad to.” “We’ll have a nice game of euchre.” “May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?” asked Hurstwood. “Certainly,” said Drouet. “I’ll introduce you.” Chapter IX. CONVENTION’S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN Hurstwood’s residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap. The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please. “George, I let Mary go yesterday,” was not an unfrequent salutation at the dinner table. “All right,” was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing the rancorous subject. A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished within it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know. Hurstwood’s residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large furniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the “perfectly appointed house.”