among men again.

Mr. Ridley did not feel as comfortable in his mind after as before
this party, nor was he as strong as before. The enemy had found a
door unguarded, had come in stealthily, and was lying on the alert,
waiting for an opportunity.

A few weeks afterward came another invitation. It was accepted. Mrs.
Ridley was not really well enough, to go out, but for her husband's
sake she went with him, and by her presence and the quiet power she
had over him held him back from the peril he might, standing alone,
have tempted.

A month later, and cards of invitation were received from Mr. and
Mrs. Spencer Birtwell. This was to be among the notable
entertainments of the season. Mr. Birtwell was a wealthy banker who,
like other men, had his weaknesses, one of which was a love of
notoriety and display. He had a showy house and attractive
equipages, and managed to get his name frequently chronicled in the
newspapers, now as the leader in some public enterprise or charity,
now as the possessor of some rare work of art, and now as the
princely capitalists whose ability and sagacity had lifted him from
obscurity to the proud position he occupied. He built himself a
palace for a residence, and when it was completed and furnished
issued tickets of admission, that the public might see in what
splendor he was going to live. Of course the newspapers described
everything with a minuteness of detail and a freedom of remark that
made some modest and sensitive people fancy that Mr. Birtwell must
be exceedingly annoyed. But he experienced no such feeling. Praise
of any kind was pleasant to his ears; you could not give him too