At this bright dinner there were many eminent women among the eminent men in the drawing room. There were two mayors, Mr. Havemeyer, newly elected, and Mr. Harper, of the Native American Party, who had failed of re-election but had won the city’s gratitude by discarding the old night watchman system of “Leatherheads” for a police force of eight hundred men in uniform—and none too many in view of the prevalence of all manner of crime. Commodore Stevens of the new yacht club was there; also Mr. A. T. Stewart, who was building a great store in Broadway, and sealing its doom as a street of homes. A picturesque guest was Mrs. Anne Cora Mowatt, who had written a successful play called “Fashion,” though she had never been behind the scenes, and who had followed it up by becoming an actress and playing “The Lady of Lyons” after one rehearsal. And she had triumphed! This was a new way for a woman to repair her broken fortunes. Across from her and somewhat terrified by the situation was the Rev. Dr. Chirnside, who abhorred the playhouse and never failed to view with alarm the fact that New York already had eight theatres and that they were rebuilt as fast as they burned down—which was pretty fast. Against these there were only a hundred and sixty churches, including nine African, six Catholic churches and four synagogues. RoBards’ heart lurched as always when he saw Harry Chalender in the drawing room. He heard him saying: “They tell me that the number of theatres in town has not increased in years, though the churches have tripled in number. Yet crime has mightily increased. How do you explain that?” “You are flippant, sir!” said Dr. Chirnside. When Patty made her entrance, swimming in like a mermaid waist-deep in a peach-blossom billow, all the babble stopped. All the eyes rolled her way. Her husband following her, slim, black, and solemn, felt a mere lackey, and yet was proud to lag at heel of such a vision. His pride sickened and his heart lurched when he saw Harry Chalender push forward and lift her hand to his lips. RoBards had once seen those lips on his wife’s mouth, and he felt now that he ought in common decency to crush them both to death. But, of course, he did not even frown when he shook Chalender’s hand. After all, Chalender had saved his life once—that black night in the fire of 1835, and he felt a twisted obligation. Another twisted emotion was his delight when he saw Chalender crowded away from Patty by other men. He felt that a man ought either to cage his wife in a cell or give up all respectable ideas of monopoly or monogamy. One might as well accept these insane notions of women’s rights to their own souls. And with the souls would go the bodies, of course. And then the home, the family, society, the nation were lost. He could not imagine the chaos that would ensue. His own heart was a seething chaos in little.