matter, in Philadelphia it’s geographical.  There it’s a question whether you live within the lines of Chestnut Street and Spruce Street—­outside of these in the city you are socially impossible:  Mrs. Cortlandt told me that two Philadelphia ladies who had become great friends at a summer resort—­one lived within and the other without the charmed lines—­went back to town together in the autumn.  At the station when they parted, the ‘inside’ lady said to the other:  ’Good-by.  It has been such a pleasure to know you!  I suppose I shall see you sometimes at Moneymaker’s!’ Moneymaker’s is the Bon Marche of Philadelphia.”

The music ceased; the band were hurrying away; the people all over the grounds were rising to go, lingering a little, reluctant to leave the enchanting scene.  Irene wished, with a sigh, that it might never end; unreal as it was, it was more native to her spirit than that future which her talk with Stanhope had opened to her contemplation.  An ill-defined apprehension possessed her in spite of the reassuring presence of her lover and her perfect confidence in the sincerity of his passion; and this feeling was somehow increased by the appearance of Mrs. Glow with her mother; she could not shake off the uneasy suggestion of the contrast.

At the hour when the ladies went to their rooms the day was just beginning for a certain class of the habitues.  The parlors were nearly deserted, and few chairs were occupied on the piazzas, but the ghosts of another generation seemed to linger, especially in the offices and barroom.  Flitting about were to be seen the social heroes who had a notoriety thirty and forty years ago in the newspapers.  This dried-up old man in a bronze wig, scuffling along in list slippers, was a famous criminal lawyer in his day; this gentleman, who still wears an air of gallantry, and is addressed as General, had once a reputation for successes in the drawing-room as well as on the field of Mars; here is a genuine old beau, with the unmistakable self-consciousness of one who has been a favorite of the sex, but who has slowly decayed in the midst of his cosmetics; here saunter along a couple of actors with the air of being on the stage.  These people all have the “nightcap” habit, and drift along towards the bar-room—­the last brilliant scene in the drama of the idle day, the necessary portal to the realm of silence and sleep.

This is a large apartment, brightly lighted, with a bar extending across one end of it.  Modern taste is conspicuous here, nothing is gaudy, colors are subdued, and its decorations are simple even the bar itself is refined, substantial, decorous, wanting entirely the meretricious glitter and barbarous ornamentation of the old structures of this sort, and the attendants have wholly laid aside the smart antics of the former bartender, and the customers are swiftly and silently served by the deferential waiters.  This is one of the most striking changes that King noticed in American life.