cried out with delight when he first saw her. She had been sixteen
when he left, and tall and thin; now she was nineteen, and with the
pale tints of the dawn in her hair and face. In the auto, Oliver had
turned and, stared at her, and pronounced the cryptic judgment,
"You'll go!"

Just now she was wandering about the rooms, exclaiming with wonder.
Everything here was so quiet and so harmonious that at first one's
suspicions were lulled. It was simplicity, but of a strange and
perplexing kind--simplicity elaborately studied. It was luxury, but
grown assured of itself, and gazing down upon itself with
aristocratic disdain. And after a while this began to penetrate the
vulgarest mind, and to fill it with awe; one cannot remain long in
an apartment which is trimmed and furnished in rarest Circassian
walnut, and "papered" with hand-embroidered silk cloth, without
feeling some excitement--even though there be no one to mention that
the furniture has cost eight thousand dollars per room, and that the
wall covering has been imported from Paris at a cost of seventy
dollars per yard.

Montague also betook himself to gazing about. He noted the great
double windows, with sashes of bronze; the bronze fire-proof doors;
the bronze electric candles and chandeliers, from which the room was
flooded with a soft radiance at the touch of a button; the
"duchesse" and "marquise" chairs, with upholstery matching the
walls; the huge leather "slumber-couch," with adjustable lamp at its
head. When one opened the door of the dressing-room closet, it was
automatically filled with light; there was an adjustable three-sided
mirror, at which one could study his own figure from every side.
There was a little bronze box near the bed, in which one might set