The windows of the room looked out upon the wide woodland vistas of the driving-park just across the street. The heavy velvet carpet, the antique tall bookcases of time-darkened mahogany that lined the walls, even the spacious mirror above the marble mantelpiece,--all were obviously relics of the past. The contour of the old-fashioned square brick house, faced with gray stone, bespoke its condition as overtaken by the march of municipal progress, rather than any choice of the fashionable site in the vicinity of the park. In fact it was the habit of the household to bewail the approach of the town, that in its swift strides and wealthy expansion had overhauled their quiet suburban home. But the approach of town had really worked them no harm, either material or sentimental. They were none the worse for the letter-box and lamp-post on the corner, and the splendid residences of the newcomers that made up the solid blocks of the vicinity had served to enormously enhance the value of the property. From the windows of the library and the drawing-rooms one might never know that the driving-park across the street was not still the "old woods" of years ago, save for the broad, smooth, well-kept roads winding deep among the vistas of the forest trees; and the sylvan tangles were no less picturesque now, because highly appreciated and carefully conserved by the taste of the park commissioners, than heretofore, when not considered at all. Even the sound of the town was but a dull murmur as it came in at the open windows; one could not discriminate the bang of the cable car which had set Jim down at the corner. They were to all intents and purposes as far away from city life and city thoughts as if the woodland opposite, that cast so welcome and soft a green shadow through the lace curtains and gave so verdant and vernal a sylvan view, were really a wilderness instead of its graceful simulacrum. "It's just as well, perhaps, that nobody told Gorham that _he_ seemed insane when he fairly threw his life away, as he thought, rather than desert poor Phil,--who after all had no sort of claim on him," the broker replied, lighting his cigar also, but with quick, nervous gestures. Frank was smoking hard. "Did you ask me to bail _Jasper Gorham_?" he demanded sarcastically, between two mighty puffs. "I did _not_, indeed!" responded his brother, and then there was silence, save for a subdued clatter of dishes from the dining-room beyond a cross hall, and the sound of some pleasant feminine voices on a side veranda, upon which it opened. Frank was more apathetic than his brother, and better held in hand, but nevertheless the tone of this rejoinder struck home. "You ask me," Frank began to justify himself, holding his cigar to one side and waving the smoke from his head with his other hand,--"you ask me to play stalking-horse for Gorham, to _pretend_ to go on the bail-bond of this young criminal while Gorham is really his security."