marry an outsider; he had gone to Boston--of all places!

San Francisco Society in the Sixties was composed almost entirely of
Southerners. Even before the war it had been difficult for a
Northerner to obtain entrance to that sacrosanct circle; the
exceptions were due to sheer personality. Southerners were
aristocrats. The North was plebeian. That was final. Since the war,
Victorious North continued to admit defeat in California. The South
had its last stronghold in San Francisco, and held it, haughty,
unconquered, inflexible.

That Dr. Talbot, who was on a family footing in every home in San
Francisco, should have placed his friends in such a delicate position
(to say nothing of shattered hopes) was voted an outrage, and at Mrs.
McLane's on that former Sunday afternoon, there had been no pretence
at indifference. The subject was thoroughly discussed. It was
possible that the creature might not even be a lady. Had any one ever
heard of a Boston family named Chilton? No one had. They knew nothing
of Boston and cared less. But the best would be bad enough.

It was more likely however that the doctor had married some obscure
person with nothing in her favor but youth, or a widow of practiced
wiles, or--horrid thought--a divorcee.

He had always been absurdly liberal in spite of his blue Southern
blood; and a man's man wandering alone at the age of forty was almost
foredoomed to disaster. No doubt the poor man had been homesick and
lonesome.

Should they receive her or should they not? If not, would they lose