Actors and esthetes and opera singers return to their stamping grounds in the autumn. As the leaves fall from the trees, to pile in crackling heaps on roadsides, the people of the artistic world gather themselves together, frayed with the merry ardours of the summer, into troublesome bunches, to be lifted and scattered by weird, enthusiastic winds. None should know all this better than Harold Fowler McCormick, the mildly extravagant reaper scion of Chicago.
He, in the days when he was relatively unsophisticated, married Edith Rockefeller and entered the bright, ineluctable world...
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