“I am glad to hear it,” said King, who did not fancy the drift their conversation was taking.  “I hope she will make a good match.  Brains are not necessary, you know.”

“Stanhope, I never said that—­never.  I might have said she wasn’t a bas bleu.  No more is she.  But she has beauty, and a good temper, and money.  It isn’t the cleverest women who make the best wives, sir.”

“Well, I’m not objecting to her being a wife.  Only it does not follow that, because my uncle and aunts are in love with her, I should want to marry her.”

“I said nothing about marriage, my touchy friend.  I am not advising you to be engaged to two women at the same time.  And I like Irene immensely.”

It was evident that she had taken a great fancy to the girl.  They were always together; it seemed to happen so, and King could hardly admit to himself that Mrs. Glow was de trop as a third.  Mr. Bartlett Glow was very polite to King and his friend, and forever had one excuse and another for taking them off with him—­the races or a lounge about town.  He showed them one night, I am sorry to say, the inside of the Temple of Chance and its decorous society, its splendid buffet, the quiet tables of rouge et noir, and the highly respectable attendants—­aged men, whitehaired, in evening costume, devout and almost godly in appearance, with faces chastened to resignation and patience with a wicked world, sedate and venerable as the deacons in a Presbyterian church.  He was lonesome and wanted company, and, besides, the women liked to be by themselves occasionally.

One might be amused at the Saratoga show without taking an active part in it, and indeed nobody did seem to take a very active part in it.  Everybody was looking on.  People drove, visited the springs—­in a vain expectation that excessive drinking of the medicated waters would counteract the effect of excessive gormandizing at the hotels—­sat about in the endless rows of armchairs on the piazzas, crowded the heavily upholstered parlors, promenaded in the corridors, listened to the music in the morning, and again in the afternoon, and thronged the stairways and passages, and blocked up the entrance to the ballrooms.  Balls?  Yes, with dress de rigueur, many beautiful women in wonderful toilets, a few debutantes, a scarcity of young men, and a delicious band—­much better music than at the White Sulphur.

And yet no society.  But a wonderful agglomeration, the artist was saying.  It is a robust sort of place.  If Newport is the queen of the watering-places, this is the king.  See how well fed and fat the people are, men and women large and expansive, richly dressed, prosperous —­looking!  What a contrast to the family sort of life at the White Sulphur!  Here nobody, apparently, cares for anybody else—­not much; it is not to be expected that people should know each other in such a heterogeneous concern; you see how comparatively few greetings there are on the piazzas and in the parlors.  You notice, too, that the types are not so distinctively American as at the Southern resort—­full faces, thick necks—­more like Germans than Americans.  And then the everlasting white hats.  And I suppose it is not certain that every man in a tall white hat is a politician, or a railway magnate, or a sporting man.