herself. Even wealth had not done for them what she felt it could have
done for her.

The first carriage drove up as she reached the foot of the stair. The
front door had been opened by the maid as it approached, and the rain
beat in. There was no _porte-cochère_; the guests were obliged to run up
the steps to avoid a drenching. The fashionable Mrs. Holt draggled her
skirts, and under her breath anathematized her host.

"It will be the happiest day of my life when this sort of thing is
over," she muttered. "Thank heaven, he can't live much longer!"

"Hush!" whispered her prudent husband; Miss Webster had appeared.

The two women kissed each other affectionately. Everybody liked Miss
Webster. Mrs. Holt, an imposing person, with the rigid backbone of the
newly rich, held her hostess's hand in both her own as she assured her
that the storm had not visited California which could keep her from one
of dear Dr. Webster's delightful dinners. As she went up-stairs to lay
aside her wrappings she relieved her feelings by a facial pucker
directed at a painting, on a matting panel, of the doctor in the robes
of Japan.

The other guests arrived, and after making the pilgrimage up-stairs,
seated themselves in the front parlor to slide up and down the
horse-hair furniture and await the entrance of the doctor. The room was
funereal. The storm-ridden trees lashed the bare dripping windows. The
carpet was threadbare. White crocheted tidies lent their emphasis to the
hideous black furniture. A table, with marble top, like a graveyard
slab, stood in the middle of the room. On it was a bunch of wax flowers