wooded vistas. Across the reservoir lakes the jewelled night-zone of the
West Side sparkled, reflected across the water in points of trembling
flame; south, a gemmed bar of topaz light, upright against the sky,
marked the Plaza; beyond, sprinkled into space like constellations
dusting endless depths, the lights of the city receded far as the eye
could see.

In the zenith the sky is always tinted with the strange, sinister
night-glow of the metropolis, red as fire-licked smoke when fog from the
bay settles, pallid as the very shadow of light when nights are clear;
but it is always there--always will be there after the sun goes down
into the western seas, and the eyes of the monstrous iron city burn on
through the centuries.

* * * * *

One morning late in April Geraldine Seagrave rode up under the
porte-cochère with her groom, dismounted, patted her horse
sympathetically, and regarded with concern the limping animal as the
groom led him away to the stables. Then she went upstairs.

To Kathleen, who was preparing to go out, she said:

"I had scarcely entered the Park, my dear, when poor Bibi pulled up
lame. No, I told Redmond not to saddle another; I suppose Duane will be
furious. Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Shall I wait for you? I've ordered a victoria."

"No, thanks. You look so pretty this morning, Kathleen. Sometimes you