“Of course it would be only in that way,” murmured Lucy, sinking back. “No, I can’t come. It wouldn’t be possible. I’m not well enough.” “Oh, mother, do. You know you go out on the cars sometimes, and the Sutter Street line is only two blocks from here. I know you’d enjoy it when you got there.” “No, dearest. No, Mrs. Willers. Don’t, please, urge me. I am not able to meet new people. No-- Oh, please don’t talk any more about my going.” Something of pain and protest in her voice made them desist. She was silent again, while Mariposa and Mrs. Willers arranged the details of the party. This was to be small and choice. Only one other person, a man referred to as Essex, was to come. At the name of Essex, Mrs. Willers shot a side look of inspection at Mariposa, who did what was expected of her in displaying a fine blush. It was decided that Mrs. Willers’ hospitality should take the form of wine and cake. There was a consultation about other and lesser viands, and finally an animated discussion as to the proper garb in which Mariposa should present herself to the first truly distinguished person she had ever met. During the conversation over these varied questions Lucy lay back among her cushions, sunk in the same pale silence. Darkness had fallen when the guest, having threshed out the subject to the last grain, took herself off. Mariposa looked from the opened doorway into a black street, dotted with the yellow blurs of lighted lamps. The air was cold with that penetrating, marrow-searching coldness of a foggy evening in San Francisco. As the night swallowed Mrs. Willers, Mariposa shut the door and came rushing back. “Mother!” she cried, before she got into her room, “isn’t that the most thrilling thing? Oh, did you ever know of anything so unexpected and wonderful and exciting. _Do_ you think he’ll like my voice? _Do_ you think he really could be interested in me because he knew father? And he can’t have known him so very well, or father would have said more of him. Did _you_ ever hear father speak about him?” The mother gave no answer, and the girl bent over her. Lucy, motionless and white, was lying among her cushions, unconscious. CHAPTER II THE MILLIONAIRE “And one man in his time plays many parts.” --SHAKESPEARE.