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Charley,” said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.

      Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manger at his desk.

      “When do you go out on the road again?” he inquired.

      “Pretty soon,” said Drouet.

      “Haven’t seen much of you this trip,” said Hurstwood.

      “Well, I’ve been busy,” said Drouet.

      They talked some few minutes on general topics.

      “Say,” said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, “I want you to come out some evening.”

      “Out where?” inquired Hurstwood.

      “Out to my house, of course,” said Drouet smiling.

      Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentlemen, said: “Certainly; glad to.”

      “We’ll have a nice game of euchre[36].”

      “May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec[37]?” asked Hurstwood.

      “Certainly,” said Drouet. “I’ll introduce you.”

      Chapter IX

      Convention’S Own Tinder-Box: The Eye that is Green

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

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

      “George, I let Mary go yesterday,” was not an unfrequent salutation at the dinner table.

      “All right,” was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing the rancorous subject.

      There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in the high school, and had notions of life which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running in her head. She met girls at the high school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.

      Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but for the most part confining himself to those generalities with which most conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desires for any one to see. He did not find any one in the house who particularly cared to see.

      Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior capability in this direction elsewhere.

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

      “I’m going up to Fox Lake to-morrow,” announced George, Jr., at the dinner table one Friday evening.

      “What’s going on up there?” queried Mrs. Hurstwood.

      “Eddie Fahrway’s got a new steam launch[38], and he wants me to come up and see how it works.”

      “How much did it cost him?” asked his mother.

      “Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it’s a dandy[39].”

      “Old Fahrway must be making money,” put in Hurstwood.

      “He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to Australia now – said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week.”

      “Just think of that!” said Mrs. Hurstwood, “and only four years ago they had that basement in Madison Street.”

      “Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring in Robey Street.”

      “Just think of that!” said Jessica.

      On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.

      “I guess I’ll be going down town,” he remarked, rising.

      “Are we going to McVicker’s Monday?” questioned Mrs.

      Hurstwood, without rising.

      “Yes,” he said indifferently.

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

      “I guess papa’s gone,” said Jessica.

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

      “They’re going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,” she reported one day, “and I’m going to be in it.”

      “Are you?” said her mother.

      “Yes, and I’ll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of Portia.”

      “Is she?” said Mrs. Hurstwood.

      “They’ve got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act.”

      “Her family doesn’t amount to anything, does it?” said Mrs. Hurstwood sympathetically. “They haven’t anything, have they?”

      “No,” returned Jessica, “they’re poor as church mice.”

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

      “What do you think?” she remarked to her mother one evening;

      “that Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me.”

      “Who is he, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.

      “Oh, no one,” said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. “He’s just a student there. He hasn’t anything.”

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

      “Who was that with you, Jessica?” she inquired, as Jessica came upstairs.

      “It’s Mr. Blyford, mamma,” she replied.

      “Is it?” said Mrs. Hurstwood.

      “Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,” explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.

      “All right, my dear,” said Mrs. Hurstwood. “Don’t be gone long.”

      As the two went down

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