For Money.—Chapters I-IV [pp. 25-39]

For ]Morney.
taking part in the conversation. "A man's
dress is so very plain and somber, that a bit
of bright color in a necktie is not at all out
of place, and his was not glaring."
"Of course, father always likes everybody,"
Louise remarked to Rose when they were
alone; "but I did not believe that mother
would have given way so easily, without even
a struggle. And Harry, too! The man has
nothing but his money. It is perfectly mortifying that people have so little strength of
mind."
She did not soften even the next day, when
a basket of beautiful hot-house flowers appeared for Frances, with Mr. Waring's card.
"It's all so big and showy," said Louise,
in an accent of strong objection, though the
blossoms were so exquisite that she regretted
the words before they were more than out of
her mouth.
"Well, I don't think I would slander my
own taste for the sake of keeping up my
character for independence," answered Frances calmly, gloating over her treasure. "The
flowers are simply perfect; and you don't
know the man well enough to know whether
he is ostentatious or not," she concluded.
Louise shrugged her shoulders. She seldom argued with Frances, except when she
forgot herself. Marion Waring was too unimportant to quarrel about, and his flowers
had given Frances too much pleasure.
III.
ONE evening towards the close of August,
Louise was sitting on the wide, vine-covered
hotel veranda, watching the face on the
mountain sharply outlined against the sunset
flush that stained the sky behind it, and
faded by imperceptible gradations through
orange, faint yellow, and green into the evening blue, pierced here and there by a silver
point of light. The purple and gray shadows of the mountains looked full of mystery,
and Louise was dreamily happy as she lay
back in her big summer chair, unspeakably
soothed by the peace and beauty before her.
There are some natures, and hers was one,
which are almost too high-strung; the keen
ness of their sensations amounts to pain,
and they suffer from many things that leave
no mark on duller souls; but they have
their compensation in their sensitiveness to
impressions of scenery for certain moods. A
fine view was an event to the girl, and a sunset or a cloudless summer sky, seen through
quivering green leaves above her, was a consolation for much of the insignificant, yet
none the less acute, sufferings of her sordid
life.
On this occasion she had been invited to
dine at the hotel with Mrs. Valentine, a middle-aged lady from the city, who was one of
the temporary summer pillars of the church,
and had taken a great fancy to her.
Mrs. Valentine believed that society and
matrimony were the end, and should be the
aim, of every girl, and she acted up to her
belief. She had been a Washington belle,
had married and entertained there, and consoled herself for glory past by being the most
indefatigable entertainer in San Francisco.
Young girls adored her, and she reciprocated.
She generally had at least two visiting her,
and her weekly receptions were crowded by
all the pleasure-loving of her set. At least
ten marriages had been made mainly through
her efforts, and she was never happier than
when conducting the preliminaries of an engagement.
She was fond of San Manuel, and generally spent the summer there, as it was near
the city, easily reached by a ferry and a short
railway ride, patronized by many of her
friends, and last, but not least, healthy for
her young grandchildren.
Being an ardent churchwoman, she soon
came to know the Lennards well, and was
struck by Louise's qualifications for a success
in society: her beauty, and a certain fluency
in conversation that did not conceal a real
reserve in the girl, which was piquant and
attractive. The only thing she lacked was
money, but Mrs. Valentine believed that with
proper guardianship the absence of that talisman might be counteracted.
"Give me Louise Lennard for one winter,
with three dresses, and I could show you a
first-rate marriage before Lent," she said one
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