"In _love?_" In an effort to express scorn adequately Mr. Higbee came perilously near to snorting. "What do you suppose a girl like that cares for love? She was dead in love with the nice long yellow-backs that I've piled up because the public knows good ham when they taste it. As for being in love with Henry or with any man--say, young fellow, you've got something to learn about those New York girls. And this one, especially. Why, it's been known for the three years we've been there that she's simply hunting night and day for a rich husband. She tries for 'em all as fast as they get in line." "Henry was unlucky in finding that kind. They're not all like that--those New York girls are not," and he had the air of being able if he chose to name one or two luminous exceptions. "Silas," called Mrs. Higbee, "are you telling Mr. Bines about our Henry and that Milbrey girl?" "Yep," answered Higbee, "I told him." "About what girl?--what was her name?" asked Percival, in a lower tone. "Milbrey's that family's name--Horace Milbrey--" "Why," Percival interrupted, somewhat awkwardly, "I know the family--the young lady--we met the family out in Montana a few weeks ago." "Sure enough--they were in Chicago and had dinner with us on their way out." "I remember Mr. Milbrey spoke of what fine claret you gave him." "Yes, and I wasn't stingy with ice, either, the way those New York people always are. Why, at that fellow's house he gives you that claret wine as warm as soup. "But as for that girl," he added, "say, she'd marry me in a minute if I wasn't tied up with the little lady over there. Of course she'd rather marry a sub-treasury; she's got about that much heart in her--cold-blooded as a German carp. She'd marry me--she'd marry _you_, if you was the best thing in sight. But say, if you was broke, she'd have about as much use for you as Chicago's got for St. Louis." CHAPTER XV. Some Light With a Few Side-lights The real spring in New York comes when blundering nature has painted the outer wilderness for autumn. What is called "spring" in the city by unreflecting users of the word is a tame, insipid season yawning into not more than half-wakefulness at best. The trees in the gas-poisoned soil are slow in their greening, the grass has but a pallid city vitality, and the rows of gaudy tulips set out primly about the fountains in the squares are palpably forced and alien. For the sumptuous blending and flaunt of colour, the spontaneous awakening of warm, throbbing new life, and all those inspiring miracles of regeneration which are performed elsewhere in April and May, the city-pent must wait until mid-October.