The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1912-05-08

HE'LL were dITnOSt a 1drnIly-
 It was an assem- mbIage melancholy for Brookfield in its suggestion. His business made him the intimate and cOnfidant of many of the men pres- ent, who had passed him with slight recognition in the intermissions. His professions had estranged him from many of the families represented, in whose homes he had been a welcome visitor two-and-twenty years before. His position, as he stood there alone at the rear of the foyer, symboliZed his social isolation.
 Brookfield was not made for self pity, but there came upon him tonight an overwhelming sense of the distress which his perverse course had brought upon those dearest to him. He looked toward the box in which, as he could see by Ellinger's pose, the old sport was scratching the mana gers dog, more interested in the ami mai than in the opera. He. felt a keen remorse that, aside from the boy, whose record was yet to be made. the only. escorts he had been able to provide for his sister and his niece had been this. old card-player,, Lew Ellinger, and Hardmuth, the sinister attorney, whose attentions to Viola had evidently been distasteful. He felt an equally keen regret when he considered the boy a talented and promising young architect just turned twenty, and reflected that but for the bIighting profession to which he had himself been so devoted, he might now be the father of such a boy and the husband of the woman, serene and stately, whom the boy called mother
 The finale of the opera rang out in vocal volume and f1ared through brass and reed stirring in Brookfield lit- tie of that militant resolve wnicn sometimes rises Phoenixlfke from the ao,,o of remorse There was the agitato of the conductors baton, tho s1Idden roll of the timbrels, the long note of principals and chorus, and the drop-curtain fell, displaying its wood ed scene of grazing sheep ana watcn- ing shepherd, lake and distant hiiis- The great sunburst in the dome shone ont the audience fluttered to its feet. Rrookfeld. undecided and 1rreSolute, nassed through the lobby, With its faded photographs, to the sidewalk and signalled for his automobile. Chapter III.
 The dining-room at Jack Brook- fields was nearly square in form, ana larger than most city dinIng-roomS even in a land of generous domestic architecture. =. CT,
 One side of the room was half fill- ed by a stately mantelp1ece, not 100 floridly carved, of old marble brought from an Italian palace. A man of Brookfeld's height, by stopping, could walk into the fire-p1ace; the average girl. like Viola, for instance, might stand erect in it. Over the mantel and reaching to the ceiling there was the picture of a moonlft sea built in to the trim Near this dependent cross-timbe of the ceiling hid the electric lamps, whose rays fell upon painted sky and water with luminous hrilliance and by their reflection gave to the room the mellowed light which was it's only illumination.
 Brookfield had left order for the supper, and when the party arrlveu from the theatre the plates were iaid for the expected guests; each plate, with it's flanking outriders or silver and ivory and glass, picked out from the dull mahogany with its individual square of Belgium lace. On the rich centre piece of the same material Jay q modest bank of red roses.
 In any department of taste Brook field was either too sensitive or too well informed to offend by any sign of ostentation. The flowers were just enough: the glassware promised only Anollinaris and champagne; the forks nrophesied a simple and digestfble supply. Old Harvey, Brookfield's col- ored pantryman and nocturnal chef, stood by, a smiling guarantor of cul- .inary excellence.
 (To Be Continued.)