Henry James
Washington Square

I

During a portion of the first half of the present century, and more particularly during the latter part of it, there flourished and practised in the city of New York a physician who enjoyed perhaps an exceptional share of the consideration which, in the United States, has always been bestowed upon distinguished members of the medical profession.  This profession in America has constantly been held in honour, and more successfully than elsewhere has put forward a claim to the epithet of “liberal.”  In a country in which, to play a social part, you must either earn your income or make believe that you earn it, the healing art has appeared in a high degree to combine two recognised sources of credit.  It belongs to the realm of the practical, which in the United States is a great recommendation; and it is touched by the light of science—a merit appreciated in a community in which the love of knowledge has not always been accompanied by leisure and opportunity.  It was an element in Dr. Sloper’s reputation that his learning and his skill were very evenly balanced; he was what you might call a scholarly doctor, and yet there was nothing abstract in his remedies—he always ordered you to take something.  Though he was felt to be extremely thorough, he was not uncomfortably theoretic, and if he sometimes explained matters rather more minutely than might seem of use to the patient, he never went so far (like some practitioners one has heard of) as to trust to the explanation alone, but always left behind him an inscrutable prescription.  There were some doctors that left the prescription without offering any explanation at all; and he did not belong to that class either, which was, after all, the most vulgar.  It will be seen that I am describing a clever man; and this is really the reason why Dr. Sloper had become a local celebrity.  At the time at which we are chiefly concerned with him, he was some fifty years of age, and his popularity was at its height.  He was very witty, and he passed in the best society of New York for a man of the world—which, indeed, he was, in a very sufficient degree.  I hasten to add, to anticipate possible misconception, that he was not the least of a charlatan.  He was a thoroughly honest man—honest in a degree of which he had perhaps lacked the opportunity to give the complete measure; and, putting aside the great good-nature of the circle in which he practised, which was rather fond of boasting that it possessed the “brightest” doctor in the country, he daily justified his claim to the talents attributed to him by the popular voice.  He was an observer, even a philosopher, and to be bright was so natural to him, and (as the popular voice said) came so easily, that he never aimed at mere effect, and had none of the little tricks and pretensions of second-rate reputations.  It must be confessed that fortune had favoured him, and that he had found the path to prosperity very soft to his tread.  He had married at the age of twenty-seven, for love, a very charming girl, Miss Catherine Harrington, of New York, who, in addition to her charms, had brought him a solid dowry.  Mrs. Sloper was amiable, graceful, accomplished, elegant, and in 1820 she had been one of the pretty girls of the small but promising capital which clustered about the Battery and overlooked the Bay, and of which the uppermost boundary was indicated by the grassy waysides of Canal Street.  Even at the age of twenty-seven Austin Sloper had made his mark sufficiently to mitigate the anomaly of his having been chosen among a dozen suitors by a young woman of high fashion, who had ten thousand dollars of income and the most charming eyes in the island of Manhattan.  These eyes, and some of their accompaniments, were for about five years a source of extreme satisfaction to the young physician, who was both a devoted and a very happy husband.  The fact of his having married a rich woman made no difference in the line he had traced for himself, and he cultivated his profession with as definite a purpose as if he still had no other resources than his fraction of the modest patrimony which on his father’s death he had shared with his brothers and sisters.  This purpose had not been preponderantly to make money—it had been rather to learn something and to do something.  To learn something interesting, and to do something useful—this was, roughly speaking, the programme he had sketched, and of which the accident of his wife having an income appeared to him in no degree to modify the validity.  He was fond of his practice, and of exercising a skill of which he was agreeably conscious, and it was so patent a truth that if he were not a doctor there was nothing else he could be, that a doctor he persisted in being, in the best possible conditions.  Of course his easy domestic situation saved him a good deal of drudgery, and his wife’s affiliation to the “best people” brought him a good many of those patients whose symptoms are, if not more interesting in themselves than those of the lower orders, at least more consistently displayed.  He desired experience, and in the course of twenty years he got a great deal.  It must be added that it came to him in some forms which, whatever might have been their intrinsic value, made it the reverse of welcome.  His first child, a little boy of extraordinary promise, as the Doctor, who was not addicted to easy enthusiasms, firmly believed, died at three years of age, in spite of everything that the mother’s tenderness and the father’s science could invent to save him.  Two years later Mrs. Sloper gave birth to a second infant—an infant of a sex which rendered the poor child, to the Doctor’s sense, an inadequate substitute for his lamented first-born, of whom he had promised himself to make an admirable man.  The little girl was a disappointment; but this was not the worst.  A week after her birth the young mother, who, as the phrase is, had been doing well, suddenly betrayed alarming symptoms, and before another week had elapsed Austin Sloper was a widower.

For a man whose trade was to keep people alive, he had certainly done poorly in his own family; and a bright doctor who within three years loses his wife and his little boy should perhaps be prepared to see either his skill or his affection impugned.  Our friend, however, escaped criticism: that is, he escaped all criticism but his own, which was much the most competent and most formidable.  He walked under the weight of this very private censure for the rest of his days, and bore for ever the scars of a castigation to which the strongest hand he knew had treated him on the night that followed his wife’s death.  The world, which, as I have said, appreciated him, pitied him too much to be ironical; his misfortune made him more interesting, and even helped him to be the fashion.  It was observed that even medical families cannot escape the more insidious forms of disease, and that, after all, Dr. Sloper had lost other patients beside the two I have mentioned; which constituted an honourable precedent.  His little girl remained to him, and though she was not what he had desired, he proposed to himself to make the best of her.  He had on hand a stock of unexpended authority, by which the child, in its early years, profited largely.  She had been named, as a matter of course, after her poor mother, and even in her most diminutive babyhood the Doctor never called her anything but Catherine.  She grew up a very robust and healthy child, and her father, as he looked at her, often said to himself that, such as she was, he at least need have no fear of losing her.  I say “such as she was,” because, to tell the truth—But this is a truth of which I will defer the telling.

II

When the child was about ten years old, he invited his sister, Mrs. Penniman, to come and stay with him.  The Miss Slopers had been but two in number, and both of them had married early in life.  The younger, Mrs. Almond by name, was the wife of a prosperous merchant, and the mother of a blooming family.  She bloomed herself, indeed, and was a comely, comfortable, reasonable woman, and a favourite with her clever brother, who, in the matter of women, even when they were nearly related to him, was a man of distinct preferences.  He preferred Mrs. Almond to his sister Lavinia, who had married a poor clergyman, of a sickly constitution and a flowery style of eloquence, and then, at the age of thirty-three, had been left a widow, without children, without fortune—with nothing but the memory of Mr. Penniman’s flowers of speech, a certain vague aroma of which hovered about her own conversation.  Nevertheless he had offered her a home under his own roof, which Lavinia accepted with the alacrity of a woman who had spent the ten years of her married life in the town of Poughkeepsie.  The Doctor had not proposed to Mrs. Penniman to come and live with him indefinitely; he had suggested that she should make an asylum of his house while she looked about for unfurnished lodgings.  It is uncertain whether Mrs. Penniman ever instituted a search for unfurnished lodgings, but it is beyond dispute that she never found them.  She settled herself with her brother and never went away, and when Catherine was twenty years old her Aunt Lavinia was still one of the most striking features of her immediate entourage.  Mrs. Penniman’s own account of the matter was that she had remained to take charge of her niece’s education.  She had given this account, at least, to every one but the Doctor, who never asked for explanations which he could entertain himself any day with inventing.  Mrs. Penniman, moreover, though she had a good deal of a certain sort of artificial assurance, shrank, for indefinable reasons, from presenting herself to her brother as a fountain of instruction.  She had not a high sense of humour, but she had enough to prevent her from making this mistake; and her brother, on his side, had enough to excuse her, in her situation, for laying him under contribution during a considerable part of a lifetime.  He therefore assented tacitly to the proposition which Mrs. Penniman had tacitly laid down, that it was of importance that the poor motherless girl should have a brilliant woman near her.  His assent could only be tacit, for he had never been dazzled by his sister’s intellectual lustre.  Save when he fell in love with Catherine Harrington, he had never been dazzled, indeed, by any feminine characteristics whatever; and though he was to a certain extent what is called a ladies’ doctor, his private opinion of the more complicated sex was not exalted.  He regarded its complications as more curious than edifying, and he had an idea of the beauty of reason, which was, on the whole, meagrely gratified by what he observed in his female patients.  His wife had been a reasonable woman, but she was a bright exception; among several things that he was sure of, this was perhaps the principal.  Such a conviction, of course, did little either to mitigate or to abbreviate his widowhood; and it set a limit to his recognition, at the best, of Catherine’s possibilities and of Mrs. Penniman’s ministrations.  He, nevertheless, at the end of six months, accepted his sister’s permanent presence as an accomplished fact, and as Catherine grew older perceived that there were in effect good reasons why she should have a companion of her own imperfect sex.  He was extremely polite to Lavinia, scrupulously, formally polite; and she had never seen him in anger but once in her life, when he lost his temper in a theological discussion with her late husband.  With her he never discussed theology, nor, indeed, discussed anything; he contented himself with making known, very distinctly, in the form of a lucid ultimatum, his wishes with regard to Catherine.

Once, when the girl was about twelve years old, he had said to her:

“Try and make a clever woman of her, Lavinia; I should like her to be a clever woman.”

Mrs. Penniman, at this, looked thoughtful a moment.  “My dear Austin,” she then inquired, “do you think it is better to be clever than to be good?”

“Good for what?” asked the Doctor.  “You are good for nothing unless you are clever.”

From this assertion Mrs. Penniman saw no reason to dissent; she possibly reflected that her own great use in the world was owing to her aptitude for many things.

“Of course I wish Catherine to be good,” the Doctor said next day; “but she won’t be any the less virtuous for not being a fool.  I am not afraid of her being wicked; she will never have the salt of malice in her character.  She is as good as good bread, as the French say; but six years hence I don’t want to have to compare her to good bread and butter.”

“Are you afraid she will turn insipid?  My dear brother, it is I who supply the butter; so you needn’t fear!” said Mrs. Penniman, who had taken in hand the child’s accomplishments, overlooking her at the piano, where Catherine displayed a certain talent, and going with her to the dancing-class, where it must be confessed that she made but a modest figure.

Mrs. Penniman was a tall, thin, fair, rather faded woman, with a perfectly amiable disposition, a high standard of gentility, a taste for light literature, and a certain foolish indirectness and obliquity of character.  She was romantic, she was sentimental, she had a passion for little secrets and mysteries—a very innocent passion, for her secrets had hitherto always been as unpractical as addled eggs.  She was not absolutely veracious; but this defect was of no great consequence, for she had never had anything to conceal.  She would have liked to have a lover, and to correspond with him under an assumed name in letters left at a shop; I am bound to say that her imagination never carried the intimacy farther than this.  Mrs. Penniman had never had a lover, but her brother, who was very shrewd, understood her turn of mind.  “When Catherine is about seventeen,” he said to himself, “Lavinia will try and persuade her that some young man with a moustache is in love with her.  It will be quite untrue; no young man, with a moustache or without, will ever be in love with Catherine.  But Lavinia will take it up, and talk to her about it; perhaps, even, if her taste for clandestine operations doesn’t prevail with her, she will talk to me about it.  Catherine won’t see it, and won’t believe it, fortunately for her peace of mind; poor Catherine isn’t romantic.”

She was a healthy well-grown child, without a trace of her mother’s beauty.  She was not ugly; she had simply a plain, dull, gentle countenance.  The most that had ever been said for her was that she had a “nice” face, and, though she was an heiress, no one had ever thought of regarding her as a belle.  Her father’s opinion of her moral purity was abundantly justified; she was excellently, imperturbably good; affectionate, docile, obedient, and much addicted to speaking the truth.  In her younger years she was a good deal of a romp, and, though it is an awkward confession to make about one’s heroine, I must add that she was something of a glutton.  She never, that I know of, stole raisins out of the pantry; but she devoted her pocket-money to the purchase of cream-cakes.  As regards this, however, a critical attitude would be inconsistent with a candid reference to the early annals of any biographer.  Catherine was decidedly not clever; she was not quick with her book, nor, indeed, with anything else.  She was not abnormally deficient, and she mustered learning enough to acquit herself respectably in conversation with her contemporaries, among whom it must be avowed, however, that she occupied a secondary place.  It is well known that in New York it is possible for a young girl to occupy a primary one.  Catherine, who was extremely modest, had no desire to shine, and on most social occasions, as they are called, you would have found her lurking in the background.  She was extremely fond of her father, and very much afraid of him; she thought him the cleverest and handsomest and most celebrated of men.  The poor girl found her account so completely in the exercise of her affections that the little tremor of fear that mixed itself with her filial passion gave the thing an extra relish rather than blunted its edge.  Her deepest desire was to please him, and her conception of happiness was to know that she had succeeded in pleasing him.  She had never succeeded beyond a certain point.  Though, on the whole, he was very kind to her, she was perfectly aware of this, and to go beyond the point in question seemed to her really something to live for.  What she could not know, of course, was that she disappointed him, though on three or four occasions the Doctor had been almost frank about it.  She grew up peacefully and prosperously, but at the age of eighteen Mrs. Penniman had not made a clever woman of her.  Dr. Sloper would have liked to be proud of his daughter; but there was nothing to be proud of in poor Catherine.  There was nothing, of course, to be ashamed of; but this was not enough for the Doctor, who was a proud man and would have enjoyed being able to think of his daughter as an unusual girl.  There would have been a fitness in her being pretty and graceful, intelligent and distinguished; for her mother had been the most charming woman of her little day, and as regards her father, of course he knew his own value.  He had moments of irritation at having produced a commonplace child, and he even went so far at times as to take a certain satisfaction in the thought that his wife had not lived to find her out.  He was naturally slow in making this discovery himself, and it was not till Catherine had become a young lady grown that he regarded the matter as settled.  He gave her the benefit of a great many doubts; he was in no haste to conclude.  Mrs. Penniman frequently assured him that his daughter had a delightful nature; but he knew how to interpret this assurance.  It meant, to his sense, that Catherine was not wise enough to discover that her aunt was a goose—a limitation of mind that could not fail to be agreeable to Mrs. Penniman.  Both she and her brother, however, exaggerated the young girl’s limitations; for Catherine, though she was very fond of her aunt, and conscious of the gratitude she owed her, regarded her without a particle of that gentle dread which gave its stamp to her admiration of her father.  To her mind there was nothing of the infinite about Mrs. Penniman; Catherine saw her all at once, as it were, and was not dazzled by the apparition; whereas her father’s great faculties seemed, as they stretched away, to lose themselves in a sort of luminous vagueness, which indicated, not that they stopped, but that Catherine’s own mind ceased to follow them.

It must not be supposed that Dr. Sloper visited his disappointment upon the poor girl, or ever let her suspect that she had played him a trick.  On the contrary, for fear of being unjust to her, he did his duty with exemplary zeal, and recognised that she was a faithful and affectionate child.  Besides, he was a philosopher; he smoked a good many cigars over his disappointment, and in the fulness of time he got used to it.  He satisfied himself that he had expected nothing, though, indeed, with a certain oddity of reasoning.  “I expect nothing,” he said to himself, “so that if she gives me a surprise, it will be all clear again.  If she doesn’t, it will be no loss.”  This was about the time Catherine had reached her eighteenth year, so that it will be seen her father had not been precipitate.  At this time she seemed not only incapable of giving surprises; it was almost a question whether she could have received one—she was so quiet and irresponsive.  People who expressed themselves roughly called her stolid.  But she was irresponsive because she was shy, uncomfortably, painfully shy.  This was not always understood, and she sometimes produced an impression of insensibility.  In reality she was the softest creature in the world.

III

As a child she had promised to be tall, but when she was sixteen she ceased to grow, and her stature, like most other points in her composition, was not unusual.  She was strong, however, and properly made, and, fortunately, her health was excellent.  It has been noted that the Doctor was a philosopher, but I would not have answered for his philosophy if the poor girl had proved a sickly and suffering person.  Her appearance of health constituted her principal claim to beauty, and her clear, fresh complexion, in which white and red were very equally distributed, was, indeed, an excellent thing to see.  Her eye was small and quiet, her features were rather thick, her tresses brown and smooth.  A dull, plain girl she was called by rigorous critics—a quiet, ladylike girl by those of the more imaginative sort; but by neither class was she very elaborately discussed.  When it had been duly impressed upon her that she was a young lady—it was a good while before she could believe it—she suddenly developed a lively taste for dress: a lively taste is quite the expression to use.  I feel as if I ought to write it very small, her judgement in this matter was by no means infallible; it was liable to confusions and embarrassments.  Her great indulgence of it was really the desire of a rather inarticulate nature to manifest itself; she sought to be eloquent in her garments, and to make up for her diffidence of speech by a fine frankness of costume.  But if she expressed herself in her clothes it is certain that people were not to blame for not thinking her a witty person.  It must be added that though she had the expectation of a fortune—Dr. Sloper for a long time had been making twenty thousand dollars a year by his profession, and laying aside the half of it—the amount of money at her disposal was not greater than the allowance made to many poorer girls.  In those days in New York there were still a few altar-fires flickering in the temple of Republican simplicity, and Dr. Sloper would have been glad to see his daughter present herself, with a classic grace, as a priestess of this mild faith.  It made him fairly grimace, in private, to think that a child of his should be both ugly and overdressed.  For himself, he was fond of the good things of life, and he made a considerable use of them; but he had a dread of vulgarity, and even a theory that it was increasing in the society that surrounded him.  Moreover, the standard of luxury in the United States thirty years ago was carried by no means so high as at present, and Catherine’s clever father took the old-fashioned view of the education of young persons.  He had no particular theory on the subject; it had scarcely as yet become a necessity of self-defence to have a collection of theories.  It simply appeared to him proper and reasonable that a well-bred young woman should not carry half her fortune on her back.  Catherine’s back was a broad one, and would have carried a good deal; but to the weight of the paternal displeasure she never ventured to expose it, and our heroine was twenty years old before she treated herself, for evening wear, to a red satin gown trimmed with gold fringe; though this was an article which, for many years, she had coveted in secret.  It made her look, when she sported it, like a woman of thirty; but oddly enough, in spite of her taste for fine clothes, she had not a grain of coquetry, and her anxiety when she put them on was as to whether they, and not she, would look well.  It is a point on which history has not been explicit, but the assumption is warrantable; it was in the royal raiment just mentioned that she presented herself at a little entertainment given by her aunt, Mrs. Almond.  The girl was at this time in her twenty-first year, and Mrs. Almond’s party was the beginning of something very important.

Some three or four years before this Dr. Sloper had moved his household gods up town, as they say in New York.  He had been living ever since his marriage in an edifice of red brick, with granite copings and an enormous fanlight over the door, standing in a street within five minutes’ walk of the City Hall, which saw its best days (from the social point of view) about 1820.  After this, the tide of fashion began to set steadily northward, as, indeed, in New York, thanks to the narrow channel in which it flows, it is obliged to do, and the great hum of traffic rolled farther to the right and left of Broadway.  By the time the Doctor changed his residence the murmur of trade had become a mighty uproar, which was music in the ears of all good citizens interested in the commercial development, as they delighted to call it, of their fortunate isle.  Dr. Sloper’s interest in this phenomenon was only indirect—though, seeing that, as the years went on, half his patients came to be overworked men of business, it might have been more immediate—and when most of his neighbours’ dwellings (also ornamented with granite copings and large fanlights) had been converted into offices, warehouses, and shipping agencies, and otherwise applied to the base uses of commerce, he determined to look out for a quieter home.  The ideal of quiet and of genteel retirement, in 1835, was found in Washington Square, where the Doctor built himself a handsome, modern, wide-fronted house, with a big balcony before the drawing-room windows, and a flight of marble steps ascending to a portal which was also faced with white marble.  This structure, and many of its neighbours, which it exactly resembled, were supposed, forty years ago, to embody the last results of architectural science, and they remain to this day very solid and honourable dwellings.  In front of them was the Square, containing a considerable quantity of inexpensive vegetation, enclosed by a wooden paling, which increased its rural and accessible appearance; and round the corner was the more august precinct of the Fifth Avenue, taking its origin at this point with a spacious and confident air which already marked it for high destinies.  I know not whether it is owing to the tenderness of early associations, but this portion of New York appears to many persons the most delectable.  It has a kind of established repose which is not of frequent occurrence in other quarters of the long, shrill city; it has a riper, richer, more honourable look than any of the upper ramifications of the great longitudinal thoroughfare—the look of having had something of a social history.  It was here, as you might have been informed on good authority, that you had come into a world which appeared to offer a variety of sources of interest; it was here that your grandmother lived, in venerable solitude, and dispensed a hospitality which commended itself alike to the infant imagination and the infant palate; it was here that you took your first walks abroad, following the nursery-maid with unequal step and sniffing up the strange odour of the ailantus-trees which at that time formed the principal umbrage of the Square, and diffused an aroma that you were not yet critical enough to dislike as it deserved; it was here, finally, that your first school, kept by a broad-bosomed, broad-based old lady with a ferule, who was always having tea in a blue cup, with a saucer that didn’t match, enlarged the circle both of your observations and your sensations.  It was here, at any rate, that my heroine spent many years of her life; which is my excuse for this topographical parenthesis.

Mrs. Almond lived much farther up town, in an embryonic street with a high number—a region where the extension of the city began to assume a theoretic air, where poplars grew beside the pavement (when there was one), and mingled their shade with the steep roofs of desultory Dutch houses, and where pigs and chickens disported themselves in the gutter.  These elements of rural picturesqueness have now wholly departed from New York street scenery; but they were to be found within the memory of middle-aged persons, in quarters which now would blush to be reminded of them.  Catherine had a great many cousins, and with her Aunt Almond’s children, who ended by being nine in number, she lived on terms of considerable intimacy.  When she was younger they had been rather afraid of her; she was believed, as the phrase is, to be highly educated, and a person who lived in the intimacy of their Aunt Penniman had something of reflected grandeur.  Mrs. Penniman, among the little Almonds, was an object of more admiration than sympathy.  Her manners were strange and formidable, and her mourning robes—she dressed in black for twenty years after her husband’s death, and then suddenly appeared one morning with pink roses in her cap—were complicated in odd, unexpected places with buckles, bugles, and pins, which discouraged familiarity.  She took children too hard, both for good and for evil, and had an oppressive air of expecting subtle things of them, so that going to see her was a good deal like being taken to church and made to sit in a front pew.  It was discovered after a while, however, that Aunt Penniman was but an accident in Catherine’s existence, and not a part of its essence, and that when the girl came to spend a Saturday with her cousins, she was available for “follow-my-master,” and even for leapfrog.  On this basis an understanding was easily arrived at, and for several years Catherine fraternised with her young kinsmen.  I say young kinsmen, because seven of the little Almonds were boys, and Catherine had a preference for those games which are most conveniently played in trousers.  By degrees, however, the little Almonds’ trousers began to lengthen, and the wearers to disperse and settle themselves in life.  The elder children were older than Catherine, and the boys were sent to college or placed in counting-rooms.  Of the girls, one married very punctually, and the other as punctually became engaged.  It was to celebrate this latter event that Mrs. Almond gave the little party I have mentioned.  Her daughter was to marry a stout young stockbroker, a boy of twenty; it was thought a very good thing.

IV

Mrs. Penniman, with more buckles and bangles than ever, came, of course, to the entertainment, accompanied by her niece; the Doctor, too, had promised to look in later in the evening.  There was to be a good deal of dancing, and before it had gone very far, Marian Almond came up to Catherine, in company with a tall young man.  She introduced the young man as a person who had a great desire to make our heroine’s acquaintance, and as a cousin of Arthur Townsend, her own intended.

Marian Almond was a pretty little person of seventeen, with a very small figure and a very big sash, to the elegance of whose manners matrimony had nothing to add.  She already had all the airs of a hostess, receiving the company, shaking her fan, saying that with so many people to attend to she should have no time to dance.  She made a long speech about Mr. Townsend’s cousin, to whom she administered a tap with her fan before turning away to other cares.  Catherine had not understood all that she said; her attention was given to enjoying Marian’s ease of manner and flow of ideas, and to looking at the young man, who was remarkably handsome.  She had succeeded, however, as she often failed to do when people were presented to her, in catching his name, which appeared to be the same as that of Marian’s little stockbroker.  Catherine was always agitated by an introduction; it seemed a difficult moment, and she wondered that some people—her new acquaintance at this moment, for instance—should mind it so little.  She wondered what she ought to say, and what would be the consequences of her saying nothing.  The consequences at present were very agreeable.  Mr. Townsend, leaving her no time for embarrassment, began to talk with an easy smile, as if he had known her for a year.

“What a delightful party!  What a charming house!  What an interesting family!  What a pretty girl your cousin is!”

These observations, in themselves of no great profundity, Mr. Townsend seemed to offer for what they were worth, and as a contribution to an acquaintance.  He looked straight into Catherine’s eyes.  She answered nothing; she only listened, and looked at him; and he, as if he expected no particular reply, went on to say many other things in the same comfortable and natural manner.  Catherine, though she felt tongue-tied, was conscious of no embarrassment; it seemed proper that he should talk, and that she should simply look at him.  What made it natural was that he was so handsome, or rather, as she phrased it to herself, so beautiful.  The music had been silent for a while, but it suddenly began again; and then he asked her, with a deeper, intenser smile, if she would do him the honour of dancing with him.  Even to this inquiry she gave no audible assent; she simply let him put his arm round her waist—as she did so it occurred to her more vividly than it had ever done before, that this was a singular place for a gentleman’s arm to be—and in a moment he was guiding her round the room in the harmonious rotation of the polka.  When they paused she felt that she was red; and then, for some moments, she stopped looking at him.  She fanned herself, and looked at the flowers that were painted on her fan.  He asked her if she would begin again, and she hesitated to answer, still looking at the flowers.

“Does it make you dizzy?” he asked, in a tone of great kindness.

Then Catherine looked up at him; he was certainly beautiful, and not at all red.  “Yes,” she said; she hardly knew why, for dancing had never made her dizzy.

“Ah, well, in that case,” said Mr. Townsend, “we will sit still and talk.  I will find a good place to sit.”

He found a good place—a charming place; a little sofa that seemed meant only for two persons.  The rooms by this time were very full; the dancers increased in number, and people stood close in front of them, turning their backs, so that Catherine and her companion seemed secluded and unobserved.  “We will talk,” the young man had said; but he still did all the talking.  Catherine leaned back in her place, with her eyes fixed upon him, smiling and thinking him very clever.  He had features like young men in pictures; Catherine had never seen such features—so delicate, so chiselled and finished—among the young New Yorkers whom she passed in the streets and met at parties.  He was tall and slim, but he looked extremely strong.  Catherine thought he looked like a statue.  But a statue would not talk like that, and, above all, would not have eyes of so rare a colour.  He had never been at Mrs. Almond’s before; he felt very much like a stranger; and it was very kind of Catherine to take pity on him.  He was Arthur Townsend’s cousin—not very near; several times removed—and Arthur had brought him to present him to the family.  In fact, he was a great stranger in New York.  It was his native place; but he had not been there for many years.  He had been knocking about the world, and living in far-away lands; he had only come back a month or two before.  New York was very pleasant, only he felt lonely.

“You see, people forget you,” he said, smiling at Catherine with his delightful gaze, while he leaned forward obliquely, turning towards her, with his elbows on his knees.

It seemed to Catherine that no one who had once seen him would ever forget him; but though she made this reflexion she kept it to herself, almost as you would keep something precious.

They sat there for some time.  He was very amusing.  He asked her about the people that were near them; he tried to guess who some of them were, and he made the most laughable mistakes.  He criticised them very freely, in a positive, off-hand way.  Catherine had never heard any one—especially any young man—talk just like that.  It was the way a young man might talk in a novel; or better still, in a play, on the stage, close before the footlights, looking at the audience, and with every one looking at him, so that you wondered at his presence of mind.  And yet Mr. Townsend was not like an actor; he seemed so sincere, so natural.  This was very interesting; but in the midst of it Marian Almond came pushing through the crowd, with a little ironical cry, when she found these young people still together, which made every one turn round, and cost Catherine a conscious blush.  Marian broke up their talk, and told Mr. Townsend—whom she treated as if she were already married, and he had become her cousin—to run away to her mother, who had been wishing for the last half-hour to introduce him to Mr. Almond.

“We shall meet again!” he said to Catherine as he left her, and Catherine thought it a very original speech.

Her cousin took her by the arm, and made her walk about.  “I needn’t ask you what you think of Morris!” the young girl exclaimed.

“Is that his name?”

“I don’t ask you what you think of his name, but what you think of himself,” said Marian.

“Oh, nothing particular!” Catherine answered, dissembling for the first time in her life.

“I have half a mind to tell him that!” cried Marian.  “It will do him good.  He’s so terribly conceited.”

“Conceited?” said Catherine, staring.

“So Arthur says, and Arthur knows about him.”

“Oh, don’t tell him!” Catherine murmured imploringly.

“Don’t tell him he’s conceited?  I have told him so a dozen times.”

At this profession of audacity Catherine looked down at her little companion in amazement.  She supposed it was because Marian was going to be married that she took so much on herself; but she wondered too, whether, when she herself should become engaged, such exploits would be expected of her.

Half an hour later she saw her Aunt Penniman sitting in the embrasure of a window, with her head a little on one side, and her gold eye-glass raised to her eyes, which were wandering about the room.  In front of her was a gentleman, bending forward a little, with his back turned to Catherine.  She knew his back immediately, though she had never seen it; for when he had left her, at Marian’s instigation, he had retreated in the best order, without turning round.  Morris Townsend—the name had already become very familiar to her, as if some one had been repeating it in her ear for the last half-hour—Morris Townsend was giving his impressions of the company to her aunt, as he had done to herself; he was saying clever things, and Mrs. Penniman was smiling, as if she approved of them.  As soon as Catherine had perceived this she moved away; she would not have liked him to turn round and see her.  But it gave her pleasure—the whole thing.  That he should talk with Mrs. Penniman, with whom she lived and whom she saw and talked with every day—that seemed to keep him near her, and to make him even easier to contemplate than if she herself had been the object of his civilities; and that Aunt Lavinia should like him, should not be shocked or startled by what he said, this also appeared to the girl a personal gain; for Aunt Lavinia’s standard was extremely high, planted as it was over the grave of her late husband, in which, as she had convinced every one, the very genius of conversation was buried.  One of the Almond boys, as Catherine called him, invited our heroine to dance a quadrille, and for a quarter of an hour her feet at least were occupied.  This time she was not dizzy; her head was very clear.  Just when the dance was over, she found herself in the crowd face to face with her father.  Dr. Sloper had usually a little smile, never a very big one, and with his little smile playing in his clear eyes and on his neatly-shaved lips, he looked at his daughter’s crimson gown.

“Is it possible that this magnificent person is my child?” he said.

You would have surprised him if you had told him so; but it is a literal fact that he almost never addressed his daughter save in the ironical form.  Whenever he addressed her he gave her pleasure; but she had to cut her pleasure out of the piece, as it were.  There were portions left over, light remnants and snippets of irony, which she never knew what to do with, which seemed too delicate for her own use; and yet Catherine, lamenting the limitations of her understanding, felt that they were too valuable to waste and had a belief that if they passed over her head they yet contributed to the general sum of human wisdom.

“I am not magnificent,” she said mildly, wishing that she had put on another dress.

“You are sumptuous, opulent, expensive,” her father rejoined.  “You look as if you had eighty thousand a year.”

“Well, so long as I haven’t—” said Catherine illogically.  Her conception of her prospective wealth was as yet very indefinite.

“So long as you haven’t you shouldn’t look as if you had.  Have you enjoyed your party?”

Catherine hesitated a moment; and then, looking away, “I am rather tired,” she murmured.  I have said that this entertainment was the beginning of something important for Catherine.  For the second time in her life she made an indirect answer; and the beginning of a period of dissimulation is certainly a significant date.  Catherine was not so easily tired as that.

Nevertheless, in the carriage, as they drove home, she was as quiet as if fatigue had been her portion.  Dr. Sloper’s manner of addressing his sister Lavinia had a good deal of resemblance to the tone he had adopted towards Catherine.

“Who was the young man that was making love to you?” he presently asked.

“Oh, my good brother!” murmured Mrs. Penniman, in deprecation.

“He seemed uncommonly tender.  Whenever I looked at you, for half an hour, he had the most devoted air.”

“The devotion was not to me,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “It was to Catherine; he talked to me of her.”

Catherine had been listening with all her ears.  “Oh, Aunt Penniman!” she exclaimed faintly.

“He is very handsome; he is very clever; he expressed himself with a great deal—a great deal of felicity,” her aunt went on.

“He is in love with this regal creature, then?” the Doctor inquired humorously.

“Oh, father,” cried the girl, still more faintly, devoutly thankful the carriage was dark.

“I don’t know that; but he admired her dress.”

Catherine did not say to herself in the dark, “My dress only?” Mrs. Penniman’s announcement struck her by its richness, not by its meagreness.

“You see,” said her father, “he thinks you have eighty thousand a year.”

“I don’t believe he thinks of that,” said Mrs. Penniman; “he is too refined.”

“He must be tremendously refined not to think of that!”

“Well, he is!” Catherine exclaimed, before she knew it.

“I thought you had gone to sleep,” her father answered.  “The hour has come!” he added to himself.  “Lavinia is going to get up a romance for Catherine.  It’s a shame to play such tricks on the girl.  What is the gentleman’s name?” he went on, aloud.

“I didn’t catch it, and I didn’t like to ask him.  He asked to be introduced to me,” said Mrs. Penniman, with a certain grandeur; “but you know how indistinctly Jefferson speaks.”  Jefferson was Mr. Almond.  “Catherine, dear, what was the gentleman’s name?”

For a minute, if it had not been for the rumbling of the carriage, you might have heard a pin drop.

“I don’t know, Aunt Lavinia,” said Catherine, very softly.  And, with all his irony, her father believed her.

V

He learned what he had asked some three or four days later, after Morris Townsend, with his cousin, had called in Washington Square.  Mrs. Penniman did not tell her brother, on the drive home, that she had intimated to this agreeable young man, whose name she did not know, that, with her niece, she should be very glad to see him; but she was greatly pleased, and even a little flattered, when, late on a Sunday afternoon, the two gentlemen made their appearance.  His coming with Arthur Townsend made it more natural and easy; the latter young man was on the point of becoming connected with the family, and Mrs. Penniman had remarked to Catherine that, as he was going to marry Marian, it would be polite in him to call.  These events came to pass late in the autumn, and Catherine and her aunt had been sitting together in the closing dusk, by the firelight, in the high back parlour.

Arthur Townsend fell to Catherine’s portion, while his companion placed himself on the sofa, beside Mrs. Penniman.  Catherine had hitherto not been a harsh critic; she was easy to please—she liked to talk with young men.  But Marian’s betrothed, this evening, made her feel vaguely fastidious; he sat looking at the fire and rubbing his knees with his hands.  As for Catherine, she scarcely even pretended to keep up the conversation; her attention had fixed itself on the other side of the room; she was listening to what went on between the other Mr. Townsend and her aunt.  Every now and then he looked over at Catherine herself and smiled, as if to show that what he said was for her benefit too.  Catherine would have liked to change her place, to go and sit near them, where she might see and hear him better.  But she was afraid of seeming bold—of looking eager; and, besides, it would not have been polite to Marian’s little suitor.  She wondered why the other gentleman had picked out her aunt—how he came to have so much to say to Mrs. Penniman, to whom, usually, young men were not especially devoted.  She was not at all jealous of Aunt Lavinia, but she was a little envious, and above all she wondered; for Morris Townsend was an object on which she found that her imagination could exercise itself indefinitely.  His cousin had been describing a house that he had taken in view of his union with Marian, and the domestic conveniences he meant to introduce into it; how Marian wanted a larger one, and Mrs. Almond recommended a smaller one, and how he himself was convinced that he had got the neatest house in New York.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said; “it’s only for three or four years.  At the end of three or four years we’ll move.  That’s the way to live in New York—to move every three or four years.  Then you always get the last thing.  It’s because the city’s growing so quick—you’ve got to keep up with it.  It’s going straight up town—that’s where New York’s going.  If I wasn’t afraid Marian would be lonely, I’d go up there—right up to the top—and wait for it.  Only have to wait ten years—they’d all come up after you.  But Marian says she wants some neighbours—she doesn’t want to be a pioneer.  She says that if she’s got to be the first settler she had better go out to Minnesota.  I guess we’ll move up little by little; when we get tired of one street we’ll go higher.  So you see we’ll always have a new house; it’s a great advantage to have a new house; you get all the latest improvements.  They invent everything all over again about every five years, and it’s a great thing to keep up with the new things.  I always try and keep up with the new things of every kind.  Don’t you think that’s a good motto for a young couple—to keep ‘going higher’?  That’s the name of that piece of poetry—what do they call it?—Excelsior!”

Catherine bestowed on her junior visitor only just enough attention to feel that this was not the way Mr. Morris Townsend had talked the other night, or that he was talking now to her fortunate aunt.  But suddenly his aspiring kinsman became more interesting.  He seemed to have become conscious that she was affected by his companion’s presence, and he thought it proper to explain it.

“My cousin asked me to bring him, or I shouldn’t have taken the liberty.  He seemed to want very much to come; you know he’s awfully sociable.  I told him I wanted to ask you first, but he said Mrs. Penniman had invited him.  He isn’t particular what he says when he wants to come somewhere!  But Mrs. Penniman seems to think it’s all right.”

“We are very glad to see him,” said Catherine.  And she wished to talk more about him; but she hardly knew what to say.  “I never saw him before,” she went on presently.

Arthur Townsend stared.

“Why, he told me he talked with you for over half an hour the other night.”

“I mean before the other night.  That was the first time.”

“Oh, he has been away from New York—he has been all round the world.  He doesn’t know many people here, but he’s very sociable, and he wants to know every one.”

“Every one?” said Catherine.

“Well, I mean all the good ones.  All the pretty young ladies—like Mrs. Penniman!” and Arthur Townsend gave a private laugh.

“My aunt likes him very much,” said Catherine.

“Most people like him—he’s so brilliant.”

“He’s more like a foreigner,” Catherine suggested.

“Well, I never knew a foreigner!” said young Townsend, in a tone which seemed to indicate that his ignorance had been optional.

“Neither have I,” Catherine confessed, with more humility.  “They say they are generally brilliant,” she added vaguely.

“Well, the people of this city are clever enough for me.  I know some of them that think they are too clever for me; but they ain’t!”

“I suppose you can’t be too clever,” said Catherine, still with humility.

“I don’t know.  I know some people that call my cousin too clever.”

Catherine listened to this statement with extreme interest, and a feeling that if Morris Townsend had a fault it would naturally be that one.  But she did not commit herself, and in a moment she asked: “Now that he has come back, will he stay here always?”

“Ah,” said Arthur, “if he can get something to do.”

“Something to do?”

“Some place or other; some business.”

“Hasn’t he got any?” said Catherine, who had never heard of a young man—of the upper class—in this situation.

“No; he’s looking round.  But he can’t find anything.”

“I am very sorry,” Catherine permitted herself to observe.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” said young Townsend.  “He takes it easy—he isn’t in a hurry.  He is very particular.”

Catherine thought he naturally would be, and gave herself up for some moments to the contemplation of this idea, in several of its bearings.

“Won’t his father take him into his business—his office?” she at last inquired.

“He hasn’t got any father—he has only got a sister.  Your sister can’t help you much.”

It seemed to Catherine that if she were his sister she would disprove this axiom.  “Is she—is she pleasant?” she asked in a moment.

“I don’t know—I believe she’s very respectable,” said young Townsend.  And then he looked across to his cousin and began to laugh.  “Look here, we are talking about you,” he added.

Morris Townsend paused in his conversation with Mrs. Penniman, and stared, with a little smile.  Then he got up, as if he were going.

“As far as you are concerned, I can’t return the compliment,” he said to Catherine’s companion.  “But as regards Miss Sloper, it’s another affair.”

Catherine thought this little speech wonderfully well turned; but she was embarrassed by it, and she also got up.  Morris Townsend stood looking at her and smiling; he put out his hand for farewell.  He was going, without having said anything to her; but even on these terms she was glad to have seen him.

“I will tell her what you have said—when you go!” said Mrs. Penniman, with an insinuating laugh.

Catherine blushed, for she felt almost as if they were making sport of her.  What in the world could this beautiful young man have said?  He looked at her still, in spite of her blush; but very kindly and respectfully.

“I have had no talk with you,” he said, “and that was what I came for.  But it will be a good reason for coming another time; a little pretext—if I am obliged to give one.  I am not afraid of what your aunt will say when I go.”

With this the two young men took their departure; after which Catherine, with her blush still lingering, directed a serious and interrogative eye to Mrs. Penniman.  She was incapable of elaborate artifice, and she resorted to no jocular device—to no affectation of the belief that she had been maligned—to learn what she desired.

“What did you say you would tell me?” she asked.

Mrs. Penniman came up to her, smiling and nodding a little, looked at her all over, and gave a twist to the knot of ribbon in her neck.  “It’s a great secret, my dear child; but he is coming a-courting!”

Catherine was serious still.  “Is that what he told you!”

“He didn’t say so exactly.  But he left me to guess it.  I’m a good guesser.”

“Do you mean a-courting me?”

“Not me, certainly, miss; though I must say he is a hundred times more polite to a person who has no longer extreme youth to recommend her than most of the young men.  He is thinking of some one else.”  And Mrs. Penniman gave her niece a delicate little kiss.  “You must be very gracious to him.”

Catherine stared—she was bewildered.  “I don’t understand you,” she said; “he doesn’t know me.”

“Oh yes, he does; more than you think.  I have told him all about you.”

“Oh, Aunt Penniman!” murmured Catherine, as if this had been a breach of trust.  “He is a perfect stranger—we don’t know him.”  There was infinite, modesty in the poor girl’s “we.”

Aunt Penniman, however, took no account of it; she spoke even with a touch of acrimony.  “My dear Catherine, you know very well that you admire him!”

“Oh, Aunt Penniman!” Catherine could only murmur again.  It might very well be that she admired him—though this did not seem to her a thing to talk about.  But that this brilliant stranger—this sudden apparition, who had barely heard the sound of her voice—took that sort of interest in her that was expressed by the romantic phrase of which Mrs. Penniman had just made use: this could only be a figment of the restless brain of Aunt Lavinia, whom every one knew to be a woman of powerful imagination.

VI

Mrs. Penniman even took for granted at times that other people had as much imagination as herself; so that when, half an hour later, her brother came in, she addressed him quite on this principle.

“He has just been here, Austin; it’s such a pity you missed him.”

“Whom in the world have I missed?” asked the Doctor.

“Mr. Morris Townsend; he has made us such a delightful visit.”

“And who in the world is Mr. Morris Townsend?”

“Aunt Penniman means the gentleman—the gentleman whose name I couldn’t remember,” said Catherine.

“The gentleman at Elizabeth’s party who was so struck with Catherine,” Mrs. Penniman added.

“Oh, his name is Morris Townsend, is it?  And did he come here to propose to you?”

“Oh, father,” murmured the girl for all answer, turning away to the window, where the dusk had deepened to darkness.

“I hope he won’t do that without your permission,” said Mrs. Penniman, very graciously.

“After all, my dear, he seems to have yours,” her brother answered.

Lavinia simpered, as if this might not be quite enough, and Catherine, with her forehead touching the window-panes, listened to this exchange of epigrams as reservedly as if they had not each been a pin-prick in her own destiny.

“The next time he comes,” the Doctor added, “you had better call me.  He might like to see me.”

Morris Townsend came again, some five days afterwards; but Dr. Sloper was not called, as he was absent from home at the time.  Catherine was with her aunt when the young man’s name was brought in, and Mrs. Penniman, effacing herself and protesting, made a great point of her niece’s going into the drawing-room alone.

“This time it’s for you—for you only,” she said.  “Before, when he talked to me, it was only preliminary—it was to gain my confidence.  Literally, my dear, I should not have the courage to show myself to-day.”

And this was perfectly true.  Mrs. Penniman was not a brave woman, and Morris Townsend had struck her as a young man of great force of character, and of remarkable powers of satire; a keen, resolute, brilliant nature, with which one must exercise a great deal of tact.  She said to herself that he was “imperious,” and she liked the word and the idea.  She was not the least jealous of her niece, and she had been perfectly happy with Mr. Penniman, but in the bottom of her heart she permitted herself the observation: “That’s the sort of husband I should have had!”  He was certainly much more imperious—she ended by calling it imperial—than Mr. Penniman.

So Catherine saw Mr. Townsend alone, and her aunt did not come in even at the end of the visit.  The visit was a long one; he sat there—in the front parlour, in the biggest armchair—for more than an hour.  He seemed more at home this time—more familiar; lounging a little in the chair, slapping a cushion that was near him with his stick, and looking round the room a good deal, and at the objects it contained, as well as at Catherine; whom, however, he also contemplated freely.  There was a smile of respectful devotion in his handsome eyes which seemed to Catherine almost solemnly beautiful; it made her think of a young knight in a poem.  His talk, however, was not particularly knightly; it was light and easy and friendly; it took a practical turn, and he asked a number of questions about herself—what were her tastes—if she liked this and that—what were her habits.  He said to her, with his charming smile, “Tell me about yourself; give me a little sketch.”  Catherine had very little to tell, and she had no talent for sketching; but before he went she had confided to him that she had a secret passion for the theatre, which had been but scantily gratified, and a taste for operatic music—that of Bellini and Donizetti, in especial (it must be remembered in extenuation of this primitive young woman that she held these opinions in an age of general darkness)—which she rarely had an occasion to hear, except on the hand-organ.  She confessed that she was not particularly fond of literature.  Morris Townsend agreed with her that books were tiresome things; only, as he said, you had to read a good many before you found it out.  He had been to places that people had written books about, and they were not a bit like the descriptions.  To see for yourself—that was the great thing; he always tried to see for himself.  He had seen all the principal actors—he had been to all the best theatres in London and Paris.  But the actors were always like the authors—they always exaggerated.  He liked everything to be natural.  Suddenly he stopped, looking at Catherine with his smile.

“That’s what I like you for; you are so natural!  Excuse me,” he added; “you see I am natural myself!”

And before she had time to think whether she excused him or not—which afterwards, at leisure, she became conscious that she did—he began to talk about music, and to say that it was his greatest pleasure in life.  He had heard all the great singers in Paris and London—Pasta and Rubini and Lablache—and when you had done that, you could say that you knew what singing was.

“I sing a little myself,” he said; “some day I will show you.  Not to-day, but some other time.”

And then he got up to go; he had omitted, by accident, to say that he would sing to her if she would play to him.  He thought of this after he got into the street; but he might have spared his compunction, for Catherine had not noticed the lapse.  She was thinking only that “some other time” had a delightful sound; it seemed to spread itself over the future.

This was all the more reason, however, though she was ashamed and uncomfortable, why she should tell her father that Mr. Morris Townsend had called again.  She announced the fact abruptly, almost violently, as soon as the Doctor came into the house; and having done so—it was her duty—she took measures to leave the room.  But she could not leave it fast enough; her father stopped her just as she reached the door.

“Well, my dear, did he propose to you to-day?” the Doctor asked.

This was just what she had been afraid he would say; and yet she had no answer ready.  Of course she would have liked to take it as a joke—as her father must have meant it; and yet she would have liked, also, in denying it, to be a little positive, a little sharp; so that he would perhaps not ask the question again.  She didn’t like it—it made her unhappy.  But Catherine could never be sharp; and for a moment she only stood, with her hand on the door-knob, looking at her satiric parent, and giving a little laugh.

“Decidedly,” said the Doctor to himself, “my daughter is not brilliant.”

But he had no sooner made this reflexion than Catherine found something; she had decided, on the whole, to take the thing as a joke.

“Perhaps he will do it the next time!” she exclaimed, with a repetition of her laugh.  And she quickly got out of the room.

The Doctor stood staring; he wondered whether his daughter were serious.  Catherine went straight to her own room, and by the time she reached it she bethought herself that there was something else—something better—she might have said.  She almost wished, now, that her father would ask his question again, so that she might reply: “Oh yes, Mr. Morris Townsend proposed to me, and I refused him!”

The Doctor, however, began to put his questions elsewhere; it naturally having occurred to him that he ought to inform himself properly about this handsome young man who had formed the habit of running in and out of his house.  He addressed himself to the younger of his sisters, Mrs. Almond—not going to her for the purpose; there was no such hurry as that—but having made a note of the matter for the first opportunity.  The Doctor was never eager, never impatient nor nervous; but he made notes of everything, and he regularly consulted his notes.  Among them the information he obtained from Mrs. Almond about Morris Townsend took its place.

“Lavinia has already been to ask me,” she said.  “Lavinia is most excited; I don’t understand it.  It’s not, after all, Lavinia that the young man is supposed to have designs upon.  She is very peculiar.”

“Ah, my dear,” the Doctor replied, “she has not lived with me these twelve years without my finding it out!”

“She has got such an artificial mind,” said Mrs. Almond, who always enjoyed an opportunity to discuss Lavinia’s peculiarities with her brother.  “She didn’t want me to tell you that she had asked me about Mr. Townsend; but I told her I would.  She always wants to conceal everything.”

“And yet at moments no one blurts things out with such crudity.  She is like a revolving lighthouse; pitch darkness alternating with a dazzling brilliancy!  But what did you tell her?” the Doctor asked.

“What I tell you; that I know very little of him.”

“Lavinia must have been disappointed at that,” said the Doctor; “she would prefer him to have been guilty of some romantic crime.  However, we must make the best of people.  They tell me our gentleman is the cousin of the little boy to whom you are about to entrust the future of your little girl.”

“Arthur is not a little boy; he is a very old man; you and I will never be so old.  He is a distant relation of Lavinia’s protégé.  The name is the same, but I am given to understand that there are Townsends and Townsends.  So Arthur’s mother tells me; she talked about ‘branches’—younger branches, elder branches, inferior branches—as if it were a royal house.  Arthur, it appears, is of the reigning line, but poor Lavinia’s young man is not.  Beyond this, Arthur’s mother knows very little about him; she has only a vague story that he has been ‘wild.’  But I know his sister a little, and she is a very nice woman.  Her name is Mrs. Montgomery; she is a widow, with a little property and five children.  She lives in the Second Avenue.”

“What does Mrs. Montgomery say about him?”

“That he has talents by which he might distinguish himself.”

“Only he is lazy, eh?”

“She doesn’t say so.”

“That’s family pride,” said the Doctor.  “What is his profession?”

“He hasn’t got any; he is looking for something.  I believe he was once in the Navy.”

“Once?  What is his age?”

“I suppose he is upwards of thirty.  He must have gone into the Navy very young.  I think Arthur told me that he inherited a small property—which was perhaps the cause of his leaving the Navy—and that he spent it all in a few years.  He travelled all over the world, lived abroad, amused himself.  I believe it was a kind of system, a theory he had.  He has lately come back to America, with the intention, as he tells Arthur, of beginning life in earnest.”

“Is he in earnest about Catherine, then?”

“I don’t see why you should be incredulous,” said Mrs. Almond.  “It seems to me that you have never done Catherine justice.  You must remember that she has the prospect of thirty thousand a year.”

The Doctor looked at his sister a moment, and then, with the slightest touch of bitterness: “You at least appreciate her,” he said.

Mrs. Almond blushed.

“I don’t mean that is her only merit; I simply mean that it is a great one.  A great many young men think so; and you appear to me never to have been properly aware of that.  You have always had a little way of alluding to her as an unmarriageable girl.”

“My allusions are as kind as yours, Elizabeth,” said the Doctor frankly.  “How many suitors has Catherine had, with all her expectations—how much attention has she ever received?  Catherine is not unmarriageable, but she is absolutely unattractive.  What other reason is there for Lavinia being so charmed with the idea that there is a lover in the house?  There has never been one before, and Lavinia, with her sensitive, sympathetic nature, is not used to the idea.  It affects her imagination.  I must do the young men of New York the justice to say that they strike me as very disinterested.  They prefer pretty girls—lively girls—girls like your own.  Catherine is neither pretty nor lively.”

“Catherine does very well; she has a style of her own—which is more than my poor Marian has, who has no style at all,” said Mrs. Almond.  “The reason Catherine has received so little attention is that she seems to all the young men to be older than themselves.  She is so large, and she dresses—so richly.  They are rather afraid of her, I think; she looks as if she had been married already, and you know they don’t like married women.  And if our young men appear disinterested,” the Doctor’s wiser sister went on, “it is because they marry, as a general thing, so young; before twenty-five, at the age of innocence and sincerity, before the age of calculation.  If they only waited a little, Catherine would fare better.”

“As a calculation?  Thank you very much,” said the Doctor.

“Wait till some intelligent man of forty comes along, and he will be delighted with Catherine,” Mrs. Almond continued.

“Mr. Townsend is not old enough, then; his motives may be pure.”

“It is very possible that his motives are pure; I should be very sorry to take the contrary for granted.  Lavinia is sure of it, and, as he is a very prepossessing youth, you might give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Dr. Sloper reflected a moment.

“What are his present means of subsistence?”

“I have no idea.  He lives, as I say, with his sister.”

“A widow, with five children?  Do you mean he lives upon her?”

Mrs. Almond got up, and with a certain impatience: “Had you not better ask Mrs. Montgomery herself?” she inquired.

“Perhaps I may come to that,” said the Doctor.  “Did you say the Second Avenue?”  He made a note of the Second Avenue.

VII

He was, however, by no means so much in earnest as this might seem to indicate; and, indeed, he was more than anything else amused with the whole situation.  He was not in the least in a state of tension or of vigilance with regard to Catherine’s prospects; he was even on his guard against the ridicule that might attach itself to the spectacle of a house thrown into agitation by its daughter and heiress receiving attentions unprecedented in its annals.  More than this, he went so far as to promise himself some entertainment from the little drama—if drama it was—of which Mrs. Penniman desired to represent the ingenious Mr. Townsend as the hero.  He had no intention, as yet, of regulating the dénouement.  He was perfectly willing, as Elizabeth had suggested, to give the young man the benefit of every doubt.  There was no great danger in it; for Catherine, at the age of twenty-two, was, after all, a rather mature blossom, such as could be plucked from the stem only by a vigorous jerk.  The fact that Morris Townsend was poor—was not of necessity against him; the Doctor had never made up his mind that his daughter should marry a rich man.  The fortune she would inherit struck him as a very sufficient provision for two reasonable persons, and if a penniless swain who could give a good account of himself should enter the lists, he should be judged quite upon his personal merits.  There were other things besides.  The Doctor thought it very vulgar to be precipitate in accusing people of mercenary motives, inasmuch as his door had as yet not been in the least besieged by fortune-hunters; and, lastly, he was very curious to see whether Catherine might really be loved for her moral worth.  He smiled as he reflected that poor Mr. Townsend had been only twice to the house, and he said to Mrs. Penniman that the next time he should come she must ask him to dinner.

He came very soon again, and Mrs. Penniman had of course great pleasure in executing this mission.  Morris Townsend accepted her invitation with equal good grace, and the dinner took place a few days later.  The Doctor had said to himself, justly enough, that they must not have the young man alone; this would partake too much of the nature of encouragement.  So two or three other persons were invited; but Morris Townsend, though he was by no means the ostensible, was the real, occasion of the feast.  There is every reason to suppose that he desired to make a good impression; and if he fell short of this result, it was not for want of a good deal of intelligent effort.  The Doctor talked to him very little during dinner; but he observed him attentively, and after the ladies had gone out he pushed him the wine and asked him several questions.  Morris was not a young man who needed to be pressed, and he found quite enough encouragement in the superior quality of the claret.  The Doctor’s wine was admirable, and it may be communicated to the reader that while he sipped it Morris reflected that a cellar-full of good liquor—there was evidently a cellar-full here—would be a most attractive idiosyncrasy in a father-in-law.  The Doctor was struck with his appreciative guest; he saw that he was not a commonplace young man.  “He has ability,” said Catherine’s father, “decided ability; he has a very good head if he chooses to use it.  And he is uncommonly well turned out; quite the sort of figure that pleases the ladies.  But I don’t think I like him.”  The Doctor, however, kept his reflexions to himself, and talked to his visitors about foreign lands, concerning which Morris offered him more information than he was ready, as he mentally phrased it, to swallow.  Dr. Sloper had travelled but little, and he took the liberty of not believing everything this anecdotical idler narrated.  He prided himself on being something of a physiognomist, and while the young man, chatting with easy assurance, puffed his cigar and filled his glass again, the Doctor sat with his eyes quietly fixed on his bright, expressive face.  “He has the assurance of the devil himself,” said Morris’s host; “I don’t think I ever saw such assurance.  And his powers of invention are most remarkable.  He is very knowing; they were not so knowing as that in my time.  And a good head, did I say?  I should think so—after a bottle of Madeira and a bottle and a half of claret!”

After dinner Morris Townsend went and stood before Catherine, who was standing before the fire in her red satin gown.

“He doesn’t like me—he doesn’t like me at all!” said the young man.

“Who doesn’t like you?” asked Catherine.

“Your father; extraordinary man!”

“I don’t see how you know,” said Catherine, blushing.

“I feel; I am very quick to feel.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Ah, well; you ask him and you will see.”

“I would rather not ask him, if there is any danger of his saying what you think.”

Morris looked at her with an air of mock melancholy.

“It wouldn’t give you any pleasure to contradict him?”

“I never contradict him,” said Catherine.

“Will you hear me abused without opening your lips in my defence?”

“My father won’t abuse you.  He doesn’t know you enough.”

Morris Townsend gave a loud laugh, and Catherine began to blush again.

“I shall never mention you,” she said, to take refuge from her confusion.

“That is very well; but it is not quite what I should have liked you to say.  I should have liked you to say: ‘If my father doesn’t think well of you, what does it matter?’”

“Ah, but it would matter; I couldn’t say that!” the girl exclaimed.

He looked at her for a moment, smiling a little; and the Doctor, if he had been watching him just then, would have seen a gleam of fine impatience in the sociable softness of his eye.  But there was no impatience in his rejoinder—none, at least, save what was expressed in a little appealing sigh.  “Ah, well, then, I must not give up the hope of bringing him round!”

He expressed it more frankly to Mrs. Penniman later in the evening.  But before that he sang two or three songs at Catherine’s timid request; not that he flattered himself that this would help to bring her father round.  He had a sweet, light tenor voice, and when he had finished every one made some exclamation—every one, that is, save Catherine, who remained intensely silent.  Mrs. Penniman declared that his manner of singing was “most artistic,” and Dr. Sloper said it was “very taking—very taking indeed”; speaking loudly and distinctly, but with a certain dryness.

“He doesn’t like me—he doesn’t like me at all,” said Morris Townsend, addressing the aunt in the same manner as he had done the niece.  “He thinks I’m all wrong.”

Unlike her niece, Mrs. Penniman asked for no explanation.  She only smiled very sweetly, as if she understood everything; and, unlike Catherine too, she made no attempt to contradict him.  “Pray, what does it matter?” she murmured softly.

“Ah, you say the right thing!” said Morris, greatly to the gratification of Mrs. Penniman, who prided herself on always saying the right thing.

The Doctor, the next time he saw his sister Elizabeth, let her know that he had made the acquaintance of Lavinia’s protégé.

“Physically,” he said, “he’s uncommonly well set up.  As an anatomist, it is really a pleasure to me to see such a beautiful structure; although, if people were all like him, I suppose there would be very little need for doctors.”

“Don’t you see anything in people but their bones?” Mrs. Almond rejoined.  “What do you think of him as a father?”

“As a father?  Thank Heaven I am not his father!”

“No; but you are Catherine’s.  Lavinia tells me she is in love.”

“She must get over it.  He is not a gentleman.”

“Ah, take care!  Remember that he is a branch of the Townsends.”

“He is not what I call a gentleman.  He has not the soul of one.  He is extremely insinuating; but it’s a vulgar nature.  I saw through it in a minute.  He is altogether too familiar—I hate familiarity.  He is a plausible coxcomb.”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Almond; “if you make up your mind so easily, it’s a great advantage.”

“I don’t make up my mind easily.  What I tell you is the result of thirty years of observation; and in order to be able to form that judgement in a single evening, I have had to spend a lifetime in study.”

“Very possibly you are right.  But the thing is for Catherine to see it.”

“I will present her with a pair of spectacles!” said the Doctor.

VIII

If it were true that she was in love, she was certainly very quiet about it; but the Doctor was of course prepared to admit that her quietness might mean volumes.  She had told Morris Townsend that she would not mention him to her father, and she saw no reason to retract this vow of discretion.  It was no more than decently civil, of course, that after having dined in Washington Square, Morris should call there again; and it was no more than natural that, having been kindly received on this occasion, he should continue to present himself.  He had had plenty of leisure on his hands; and thirty years ago, in New York, a young man of leisure had reason to be thankful for aids to self-oblivion.  Catherine said nothing to her father about these visits, though they had rapidly become the most important, the most absorbing thing in her life.  The girl was very happy.  She knew not as yet what would come of it; but the present had suddenly grown rich and solemn.  If she had been told she was in love, she would have been a good deal surprised; for she had an idea that love was an eager and exacting passion, and her own heart was filled in these days with the impulse of self-effacement and sacrifice.  Whenever Morris Townsend had left the house, her imagination projected itself, with all its strength, into the idea of his soon coming back; but if she had been told at such a moment that he would not return for a year, or even that he would never return, she would not have complained nor rebelled, but would have humbly accepted the decree, and sought for consolation in thinking over the times she had already seen him, the words he had spoken, the sound of his voice, of his tread, the expression of his face.  Love demands certain things as a right; but Catherine had no sense of her rights; she had only a consciousness of immense and unexpected favours.  Her very gratitude for these things had hushed itself; for it seemed to her that there would be something of impudence in making a festival of her secret.  Her father suspected Morris Townsend’s visits, and noted her reserve.  She seemed to beg pardon for it; she looked at him constantly in silence, as if she meant to say that she said nothing because she was afraid of irritating him.  But the poor girl’s dumb eloquence irritated him more than anything else would have done, and he caught himself murmuring more than once that it was a grievous pity his only child was a simpleton.  His murmurs, however, were inaudible; and for a while he said nothing to any one.  He would have liked to know exactly how often young Townsend came; but he had determined to ask no questions of the girl herself—to say nothing more to her that would show that he watched her.  The Doctor had a great idea of being largely just: he wished to leave his daughter her liberty, and interfere only when the danger should be proved.  It was not in his manner to obtain information by indirect methods, and it never even occurred to him to question the servants.  As for Lavinia, he hated to talk to her about the matter; she annoyed him with her mock romanticism.  But he had to come to this.  Mrs. Penniman’s convictions as regards the relations of her niece and the clever young visitor who saved appearances by coming ostensibly for both the ladies—Mrs. Penniman’s convictions had passed into a riper and richer phase.  There was to be no crudity in Mrs. Penniman’s treatment of the situation; she had become as uncommunicative as Catherine herself.  She was tasting of the sweets of concealment; she had taken up the line of mystery.  “She would be enchanted to be able to prove to herself that she is persecuted,” said the Doctor; and when at last he questioned her, he was sure she would contrive to extract from his words a pretext for this belief.

“Be so good as to let me know what is going on in the house,” he said to her, in a tone which, under the circumstances, he himself deemed genial.

“Going on, Austin?” Mrs. Penniman exclaimed.  “Why, I am sure I don’t know!  I believe that last night the old grey cat had kittens!”

“At her age?” said the Doctor.  “The idea is startling—almost shocking.  Be so good as to see that they are all drowned.  But what else has happened?”

“Ah, the dear little kittens!” cried Mrs. Penniman.  “I wouldn’t have them drowned for the world!”

Her brother puffed his cigar a few moments in silence.  “Your sympathy with kittens, Lavinia,” he presently resumed, “arises from a feline element in your own character.”

“Cats are very graceful, and very clean,” said Mrs. Penniman, smiling.

“And very stealthy.  You are the embodiment both of grace and of neatness; but you are wanting in frankness.”

“You certainly are not, dear brother.”

“I don’t pretend to be graceful, though I try to be neat.  Why haven’t you let me know that Mr. Morris Townsend is coming to the house four times a week?”

Mrs. Penniman lifted her eyebrows.  “Four times a week?”

“Five times, if you prefer it.  I am away all day, and I see nothing.  But when such things happen, you should let me know.”

Mrs. Penniman, with her eyebrows still raised, reflected intently.  “Dear Austin,” she said at last, “I am incapable of betraying a confidence.  I would rather suffer anything.”

“Never fear; you shall not suffer.  To whose confidence is it you allude?  Has Catherine made you take a vow of eternal secrecy?”

“By no means.  Catherine has not told me as much as she might.  She has not been very trustful.”

“It is the young man, then, who has made you his confidante?  Allow me to say that it is extremely indiscreet of you to form secret alliances with young men.  You don’t know where they may lead you.”

“I don’t know what you mean by an alliance,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “I take a great interest in Mr. Townsend; I won’t conceal that.  But that’s all.”

“Under the circumstances, that is quite enough.  What is the source of your interest in Mr. Townsend?”

“Why,” said Mrs. Penniman, musing, and then breaking into her smile, “that he is so interesting!”

The Doctor felt that he had need of his patience.  “And what makes him interesting?—his good looks?”

“His misfortunes, Austin.”

“Ah, he has had misfortunes?  That, of course, is always interesting.  Are you at liberty to mention a few of Mr. Townsend’s?”

“I don’t know that he would like it,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “He has told me a great deal about himself—he has told me, in fact, his whole history.  But I don’t think I ought to repeat those things.  He would tell them to you, I am sure, if he thought you would listen to him kindly.  With kindness you may do anything with him.”

The Doctor gave a laugh.  “I shall request him very kindly, then, to leave Catherine alone.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Penniman, shaking her forefinger at her brother, with her little finger turned out, “Catherine had probably said something to him kinder than that.”

“Said that she loved him?  Do you mean that?”

Mrs. Penniman fixed her eyes on the floor.  “As I tell you, Austin, she doesn’t confide in me.”

“You have an opinion, I suppose, all the same.  It is that I ask you for; though I don’t conceal from you that I shall not regard it as conclusive.”

Mrs. Penniman’s gaze continued to rest on the carpet; but at last she lifted it, and then her brother thought it very expressive.  “I think Catherine is very happy; that is all I can say.”

“Townsend is trying to marry her—is that what you mean?”

“He is greatly interested in her.”

“He finds her such an attractive girl?”

“Catherine has a lovely nature, Austin,” said Mrs. Penniman, “and Mr. Townsend has had the intelligence to discover that.”

“With a little help from you, I suppose.  My dear Lavinia,” cried the Doctor, “you are an admirable aunt!”

“So Mr. Townsend says,” observed Lavinia, smiling.

“Do you think he is sincere?” asked her brother.

“In saying that?”

“No; that’s of course.  But in his admiration for Catherine?”

“Deeply sincere.  He has said to me the most appreciative, the most charming things about her.  He would say them to you, if he were sure you would listen to him—gently.”

“I doubt whether I can undertake it.  He appears to require a great deal of gentleness.”

“He is a sympathetic, sensitive nature,” said Mrs. Penniman.

Her brother puffed his cigar again in silence.  “These delicate qualities have survived his vicissitudes, eh?  All this while you haven’t told me about his misfortunes.”

“It is a long story,” said Mrs. Penniman, “and I regard it as a sacred trust.  But I suppose there is no objection to my saying that he has been wild—he frankly confesses that.  But he has paid for it.”

“That’s what has impoverished him, eh?”

“I don’t mean simply in money.  He is very much alone in the world.”

“Do you mean that he has behaved so badly that his friends have given him up?”

“He has had false friends, who have deceived and betrayed him.”

“He seems to have some good ones too.  He has a devoted sister, and half-a-dozen nephews and nieces.”

Mrs. Penniman was silent a minute.  “The nephews and nieces are children, and the sister is not a very attractive person.”

“I hope he doesn’t abuse her to you,” said the Doctor; “for I am told he lives upon her.”

“Lives upon her?”

“Lives with her, and does nothing for himself; it is about the same thing.”

“He is looking for a position—most earnestly,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “He hopes every day to find one.”

“Precisely.  He is looking for it here—over there in the front parlour.  The position of husband of a weak-minded woman with a large fortune would suit him to perfection!”

Mrs. Penniman was truly amiable, but she now gave signs of temper.  She rose with much animation, and stood for a moment looking at her brother.  “My dear Austin,” she remarked, “if you regard Catherine as a weak-minded woman, you are particularly mistaken!”  And with this she moved majestically away.

IX

It was a regular custom with the family in Washington Square to go and spend Sunday evening at Mrs. Almond’s.  On the Sunday after the conversation I have just narrated, this custom was not intermitted and on this occasion, towards the middle of the evening, Dr. Sloper found reason to withdraw to the library, with his brother-in-law, to talk over a matter of business.  He was absent some twenty minutes, and when he came back into the circle, which was enlivened by the presence of several friends of the family, he saw that Morris Townsend had come in and had lost as little time as possible in seating himself on a small sofa, beside Catherine.  In the large room, where several different groups had been formed, and the hum of voices and of laughter was loud, these two young persons might confabulate, as the Doctor phrased it to himself, without attracting attention.  He saw in a moment, however, that his daughter was painfully conscious of his own observation.  She sat motionless, with her eyes bent down, staring at her open fan, deeply flushed, shrinking together as if to minimise the indiscretion of which she confessed herself guilty.

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