You may think that a woman so situated would not have been apt to meet Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, née Castleman, and to be chosen for her bosom friend; but that would only be because you do not know the modern world.  We have managed to get upon the consciences of the rich, and they invite us to attend their tea-parties and disturb their peace of mind.  And then, too, I had a peculiar hold upon Sylvia; when I met her I possessed the key to the great mystery of her life.  How that had come about is a story in itself, the thing I have next to tell.

2.  It happened that my arrival in New York from the far West coincided with Sylvia’s from the far South; and that both fell at a time when there were no wars or earthquakes or football games to compete for the front page of the newspapers.  So everybody was talking about the prospective wedding.  The fact that the Southern belle had caught the biggest prize among the city’s young millionaires was enough to establish precedence with the city’s subservient newspapers, which had proceeded to robe the grave and punctilious figure of the bridegroom in the garments of King Cophetua.  The fact that the bride’s father was the richest man in his own section did not interfere with this—­for how could metropolitan editors be expected to have heard of the glories of Castleman Hall, or to imagine that there existed a section of America so self-absorbed that its local favourite would not feel herself exalted in becoming Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver?

What the editors knew about Castleman Hall was that they wired for pictures, and a man was sent from the nearest city to “snap” this unknown beauty; whereupon her father chased the presumptuous photographer and smashed his camera with a cane.  So, of course, when Sylvia stepped out of the train in New York, there was a whole battery of cameras awaiting her, and all the city beheld her image the next day.

The beginning of my interest in this “belle” from far South was when I picked up the paper at my breakfast table, and found her gazing at me, with the wide-open, innocent eyes of a child; a child who had come from some fairer, more gracious world, and brought the memory of it with her, trailing her clouds of glory.  She had stepped from the train into the confusion of the roaring city, and she stood, startled and frightened, yet, I thought, having no more real idea of its wickedness and horror than a babe in arms.  I read her soul in that heavenly countenance, and sat looking at it, enraptured, dumb.  There must have been thousands, even in that metropolis of Mammon, who loved her from that picture, and whispered a prayer for her happiness.

I can hear her laugh as I write this.  For she would have it that I was only one more of her infatuated lovers, and that her clouds of glory were purely stage illusion.  She knew exactly what she was doing with those wide-open, innocent eyes!  Had not old Lady Dee, most cynical of worldlings, taught her how to use them when she was a child in pig-tails?  To be sure she had been scared when she stepped off the train, and strange men had shoved cameras under her nose.  It was almost as bad as being assassinated!  But as to her heavenly soul—­alas, for the blindness of men, and of sentimental old women, who could believe in a modern “society” girl!