Ursula inspected herself in the glass, saw a face and form exceeding
fair to look upon; she decided to take her brother's advice. At twenty
she threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh for
love--Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year. Of course, from the
standpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in New
York is but one remove from tenement house poverty. As Clayton had no
more ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothing
to do but live with Norman and "take care of him." But for this
self-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich at
thirty-seven. As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progress
toward luxurious independence was slower--and there was the house,
costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up.

There had been a time in Norman's career--a brief and very early
time--when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he had
entertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor or
people's side and fighting for glory only. The pressure of expensive
living had soon driven this notion clean off. Norman had almost
forgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it had
been in the last year at law school. Young men of high intelligence and
ardent temperament always pass through this period. With some--a
few--its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before the
cool, steady breath of worldliness.

All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner. He now leaves the
third floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twenty
minutes of the dinner hour.

As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice called
to him, "That you, Fred?"