To see Esther Wandrell pass by--beautiful, heroic, composed--was to
feel she was the most magnetic of women. To recite verses to her--to
lay siege to her heart--was to learn that her personal magnetism was
from a repellant pole. The air grew heavy. There was a lack of ozone.
The presumptuous beleaguerer withdrew and was glad to come off without
capture.

There had been one man, and toward the last, two men, who did not meet
these mystic difficulties. Esther Wandrell was pleased to be in the
society of either David Lockwin or George Harpwood.

David Lockwin she knew. He was socially her equal. He had lived in
Chicago as long as she. He was essentially the man she might love, for
there was an element of unrest in his nature that corresponded with the
turmoil underneath her calm exterior.

She knew nothing of George Harpwood other than that he was an
acquaintance with whom she liked to pass an hour. He did not degrade
her pride. He walked erectly, he scorned the common people, he
presented an appearance sufficiently striking to enable her to
accompany him without making a bad picture on the street or in the
parlor.

All other men bored her, and she could not conceal the fact.

To promenade with Harpwood and notice that Lockwin was interested--this
was indeed a tonic. The world of tuberoses and _portes cocheres_--the
world of soft carpets and waltzes heard in the distance--this aromatic,
conventional and dreary world became a paradise.