hydrangea bushes. They were passing a frowning palace set on a piece
of velvet turf as small as a pocket handkerchief--so small that the
lighted windows were plainly visible from the road.

"Stop," said Ben to his driver. He had suddenly realized how long it
must be before he could rouse the Cord household.

He paid his driver, got out, and made his way up the driveway
toward the house. Groups of chauffeurs were standing about their
cars--vigorous, smartly dressed men, young for the most part. Ben
wondered if it were possible that they were content with the present
arrangement, and whether their wives and children were not stifling in
the city at that very moment. He caught a sentence here and there as
he passed. "And, believe me," one was saying, "as soon as he got into
the box he did not do a thing to that fellar from Tiverton--" Ben's
footsteps lagged a little. He was a baseball fan. He almost forgave
the chauffeurs for being content. They seemed to him human beings,
after all.

He approached the house, and, walking past a narrow, unroofed piazza,
he found himself opposite a long window. He looked straight into the
ballroom. The ball was a fancy ball--the best of the season. It was
called a Balkan Ball, which gave all the guests the opportunity of
dressing pretty much as they pleased. The wood of the long paneled
room was golden, and softened the light from the crystal appliques
along the wall, and set off the bright dresses of the dancers as a
gold bowl sets off the colors of fruit.

Every now and then people stepped out on the piazza, and as they did
they became audible to Ben for a few seconds. First, two middle-aged