Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brickbuilding of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with thefirst floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had alarge bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced infront by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep.There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of theneighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.

The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, andhis son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides thesea maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of variousextraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.

"George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent salutation atthe dinner table.

"All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussingthe rancorous subject.

A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than whichthere is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing morecalculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourishedwithin it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influencewill not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelidsat some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bindand thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know.

Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with thishome spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the homeis nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as theartistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs,rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving ofsome unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzesgathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the largefurniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the"perfectly appointed house."

In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters andother utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which couldnot be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He hadstudied the subject for years in his business. He took no littlesatisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived, somethingof what the art of the thing required. He was not garrulous by anymeans. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner towardthe entire domestic economy of his life which was all that iscomprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, hewould not talk freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist.What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in himto walk away from the impossible thing.

There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his Jessica,especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now,however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had developed a certain amountof reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest formof parental devotion. She was in the high school, and had notions oflife which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothesand urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individualestablishments were running in her head. She met girls at the highschool whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standinglocally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gavethemselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments fromwhence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whomJessica concerned herself.

Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was alreadyconnected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. Hecontributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but wasthought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had someability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, asyet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and wentout, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to hismother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, butfor the most part confining himself to those generalities with whichmost conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desiresfor any one to see. He did not find any one in the house whoparticularly cared to see.

Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured toshine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superiorcapability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extendedto that little conventional round of society of which she was not--butlonged to be--a member. She was not without realisation already thatthis thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For herdaughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise alittle. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw toherself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing wellenough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventuresshould prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small, buthis income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy wasfixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal termswith him.

The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent toall. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which wereof the same calibre.

"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at thedinner table one Friday evening.

"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up andsee how it works."

"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.

"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."

"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.

"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura to Australianow--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week."

"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years ago theyhad that basement in Madison Street."

"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next springin Robey Street."

"Just think of that!" said Jessica.

On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.

"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.

"Are we going to McVickar's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, withoutrising.

"Yes," he said indifferently.

They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.Presently the door clicked.

"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.

The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.

"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," shereported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."

"Are you?" said her mother.

"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in theschool are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part ofPortia."

"Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act."

"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs. Hurstwoodsympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"

"No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."

She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school,many of whom were attracted by her beauty.

"What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "thatHerbert Crane tried to make friends with me."

"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just astudent there. He hasn't anything."

The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford,the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood was on thethird floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to lookout at the time.

"Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica cameupstairs.

"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.

"Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him," explainedJessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.

"All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."

As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of thewindow. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory.

In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, notthinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature totrouble for something better, unless the better was immediately andsharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimesby the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by someshow of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction.The life of the resort which he managed was his life. There he spentmost of his time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice. Withrare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind that anordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested in the talk ofhis son and daughter, who always looked well. The vanity of Mrs.Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but toHurstwood this was much better than plainness. There was no love lostbetween them. There was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinionon any subject was not startling. They did not talk enough together tocome to the argument of any one point. In the accepted and popularphrase, she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meeta woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seemrather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction whichsuch an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his socialposition and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate hishome life, because it might affect his relations with his employers.They wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have adignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage.Therefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared inthe public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, or thosenear by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strollingabout conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need ofit.

When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who hadmoney, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It didn't do totalk about those things. If it came up for discussion among such friendsas with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of the thing."It was all right to do it--all men do those things--but why wasn't hecareful? A man can't be too careful." He lost sympathy for the man thatmade a mistake and was found out.

On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wifeabout--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not beenfor the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did notdepend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with considerablecuriosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men lookedat her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and thiscombination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a woman ofher home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sexwas not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which would win theconfidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she lovedhim vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that wasno longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.

During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a largething. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to beoutshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.

"Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood onemorning.

Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before theglass at the time.

"I thought she just bought one," he said.

"That was just something for evening wear," returned his wifecomplacently.

"It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good dealfor dresses of late."

"Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of hisvoice impressed her as containing something she had not heard therebefore.

He was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had beenaccustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a localaldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a junket thatwas to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.

"Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was aslight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore asilk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time." Hisleft eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want to comealong, George."

The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.

"I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."

"Where?" she asked, looking up.

"To Philadelphia, on business."

She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.

"I'll have to leave you behind this time."

"All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking thatit was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few morequestions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was adisagreeable attachment.

On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he wassorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and hatedthoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole incident wasglossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood gave the subjectconsiderable thought. She drove out more, dressed better, and attendedtheatres freely to make up for it.

Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. Itran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With thelapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer--musteventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.