violets, but there were none to be seen. Miss Bolton wore violets, but not
the deep, dark, wide and sad-eyed violet known as the Russian.

We had a curious talk, driving home, about the responsibility of human
action--hardly the kind of conversation for "after the ball." Miss
Caddington astonished me by saying that she considered it useless to
strive against the current of that which is called "Destiny;" that it was
better to yield gracefully than to awkwardly, unsuccessfully struggle
against the tide. I was deeply interested, and asked her what she meant,
what association of ideas had produced the speech.

"For instance," she said, "if a man who fancies himself in love with me
deliberately dictates a certain course of action which I do not care to
follow, and grows angry with me, and finally breaks with me altogether, I
certainly do not in any way feel responsible for any of his subsequent
movements. Am I right?"

In parting with her, and in answer to her question, I made, as we so often
make in reply to real questions, a foolish answer:

"I will tell you on New Year's night."

* * * * *

I drove to the club. I was aglow with my enjoyment of the evening, and
wanted to talk it over with some congenial fellow. I found John Hardisty,
a man that I had known for many years, and who always seemed to enjoy my
rambling accounts--even of a ball.

Hardisty was a quiet man, keenly observant of people, but himself free