What is it—who can say? That awakening in the soul of man, that sense of uplift, of new power arriving, of mastery conscious and exultant! To some it is known as genius, and to others as God. To have possessed it in some great crisis is to have made history; and most strange have been the courses to which men have been lured by the dream of keeping it continuously—to stand upon a pillar and be devoured by worms, to hide in desert caves and lash one’s flesh to strips—or to wear tight stays and high-heeled shoes, and venture into a den of Harvard club-men! § 5 Half an hour or so later, when they were passing tea and cake, the flame of her fun burned less brightly for a few minutes, and she had time to remember a purpose which was stored away in the back of her mind. All her faculties now became centered upon it; and those who wish may follow the winding serpent of her cunning. She had been telling them about the negro boy who had bitten a piece out of the baby. Thurlow remarked, “Yours must be an interesting part of the world.” “We love it,” she said. “But you wouldn’t.” “Why not?” “You’d miss too many things you are used to. Our college boys have no such luxury as this.” She looked about her. “You think this so very luxurious?” “I do indeed. I’m not sure that I think it’s good taste for young fellows.” “But why not?” “It gets you out of touch with life,” replied Sylvia, with charming gravity. (“Don’t play too long on one string!” had been a maxim of Lady Dee.) “I think it’s demoralizing. This place might be a sanatorium instead of a dormitory—if only you had elevators to take the invalids upstairs.” Somebody remarked, “We have elevators in many of the dormitories.” “Is that really so?” asked Sylvia. “I don’t see how you can go beyond that—unless some of you take to having private houses.” There was a laugh. “We’ve come to that, too,” said Bates. “What?” cried the girl. “Surely not!” “Douglas van Tuiver has a house,” replied Bates. “Surely you are jesting!” “No! I’ll show it to you, Miss Castleman.” “Who is Douglas van Tuiver?” The men glanced at one another. “Haven’t you ever heard of the van Tuivers?” asked one. “Who are they?” countered Sylvia, who never lied when she could avoid it. “They are one of our oldest families,” said Shackleford—who came from New York. “Also one of the best known.” “Well,” said Sylvia, duly rebuked, “you see how very provincial I am.” “He’s a nephew of Mrs. Harold Cliveden,” ventured Harmon. “Cliveden?” repeated Sylvia. “I think I’ve heard that name.” She kept a straight face—though the lady was the reigning queen of Newport, and a theme of the society gossip of all American newspapers. Then, not to embarrass her friends by too great ignorance, she hurried on, “But you surely don’t mean that this man has a house all to himself?” “He has,” said Thurlow. “He has more than that,” said Jackson. “He has a castle in Scotland.”