"Do you suppose I'd come out with a duplicate? You should have thought of

it years ago. You always promised to take me to India."

"It should be on you!" He gazed at her adoringly. Her hair was dressed

in a high and stately fashion to-night. She wore a gown of gold brocade

and a necklace and little tiara of emeralds and diamonds; she was

looking very handsome and very regal. Thornton was a thin, dark, nervous

wisp of a man, who had borne his share of the burdens laid upon his city

in the cataclysm of 1906, but if his wife had demanded an enormous

historic ruby he would have done his best to gratify her. But how the

deuce could a man-Mrs. Gwynne was holding the stone in her hand and smiling into its

flaming depths without envy. She was one of those women of dazzling white

skin, black hair and blue eyes, who, when wise, never wear any jewels but

pearls. She wore the Gwynne pearls to-night and a shimmering white gown.

Ruyler glanced round the fine old room with the warm feeling of

satisfaction he always experienced at a San Francisco function, where the

women were almost as invariably pretty as they were gay and friendly. He

did not like the younger men he met on these occasions as well as he did

many of the older ones; the serious ones would not waste their time on

society, and there were too many of the sort who were asked everywhere

because they had made a cult of fashion, whether they could afford it or

not. A few were the sons of wealthy parents, and were more dissipated

than those obliged to "hold down" a job that provided them with money

enough above their bare living expenses to make them useful and

presentable.

Ruyler looked upon both sorts as cumberers of the earth, and only

tolerated them in his own house when his wife gave a party and dancing

men must be had at any price.

There was one man here to-night for whom he had always held particular

detestation. His name was Nicolas Doremus. He was a broker in a small

way, but Ruyler guessed that he made the best part of his income at

bridge, possibly poker. He lived with two other men in a handsome

apartment in one of the new buildings that were changing the old skyline

of San Francisco. His dancing teas and suppers were admirably appointed

and the most exclusive people went to them.

Ruyler knew his history in a general way. His father had made a fortune

in "Con. Virginia" in the Seventies, and his mother for a few years had

been the social equal of the women who now patronized her son. But

unfortunately the gambling microbe settled down in Harry Doremus' veins,

and shortly after his son was born he engaged his favorite room at the

Cliff House and blew out his brains. His wife was left with a large

house, which as a last act of grace he had forborne to mortgage and made

over to her by deed. She immediately advertised for boarders, and as her

cooking was excellent and she had the wit to drop out of society and give

her undivided attention to business, she prospered exceedingly.




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