Mrs. Percy-Bartlett and Gertrude Van Vleck were seated _en tête-à-tête_ in the drawing-room, talking of a quiet wedding that had taken place recently in the inner circle. This matrimonial event had possessed peculiar features. It was rumored, on evidence more conclusive than gossip often enjoys, that the bride had done the larger part of the wooing and had actually proposed to the man of her choice. What the circumstances were that had led to this reversal of ancient custom on the part of people to whom time-honored precedents are especially dear nobody but the high contracting parties knew; but it was well understood that the woman had taken the initiative, and had been successful in her egotistic match-making. There were a good many spinsters in society who approved of her course, but Gertrude Van Vleck was not among them. “But,” argued Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, “I thought, Gertrude, that you were progressive. You seem to accept many of the new ideas, but reject others. I am sure I can’t see why she did an unwomanly thing. In these days there is hardly anything that can be called unwomanly--if it is done gracefully.” Gertrude smiled sadly as she looked into her friend’s sympathetic eyes. They both realized that the problem they were discussing was not an abstract question, but that, on the contrary, it possessed a concrete and vital significance for one of them. “I’m afraid, Harriet,” said Gertrude musingly, “that I cannot keep up with women who are determined to be in the front ranks of the new movement. I have too many conservative characteristics in my make-up, inherited from my father.” She looked about her with restless eyes, her glance seeming to appeal to the spirit of the room in which they sat for strength and comfort. There are many drawing-rooms in New York that combine luxury with taste. Not a few are actually regal in their magnificence. But a drawing-room that indicates ancestral glories, that seems to rejoice in the fact that it is the storehouse of patrician memories, is a rarity. The Van Vlecks’ drawing-room was a shrine sacred to the cult of true American aristocracy. You might pooh-pooh the Van Vlecks’ coat-of-arms, their family livery, or other outward manifestations of ancestral pride, but only an iconoclast deluded by delirium could enter that drawing-room without feeling the subtle influence that it exerted in opposition to the image-breakers of to-day. Suddenly Mrs. Percy-Bartlett broke the silence that had followed Gertrude’s last remark. “You sail Wednesday. You do not expect to see him before you go?” “No. Why should I? He will not come to me again.” “Tell me, Gertrude, how you know,” said Mrs. Percy-Bartlett gently, taking the girl’s cold hand in hers. “It is hard to explain,” remarked Gertrude wearily. “I understand him so well, Harriet. He is very proud, and has such queer ideas! He--he--don’t think me awfully conceited, Harriet--he--I’m sure he likes me. But I never expect to see him again.”