at glittering glance which slips
across the room and holds her as she stands. Involuntarily she leans
upon Sligo Moultrie, as if clinging to him.

There is more music?--a lighter, then a sadder and lingering strain. It
recedes slowly, slowly up the street. The company stand in the pretty
parlor, and not a word is spoken. It is past midnight; the music is over.

"What a charming party! Mr. Newt, how much we are obliged to you!" says
Mrs. Godefroi Plumer, as Abel hands her into the carriage.

"The pleasure is all mine, Madame," replies Mr. Newt, as he sees with
bitterness that Sligo Moultrie stands ready to offer his hand to assist
Miss Plumer. The footman holds the carriage door open. Miss Plumer can
accept the assistance of but one, and Mr. Abel is resolved to know which
one.

"Permit me, Miss Plumer," says Sligo.

"Allow me, Miss Grace," says Abel.

The latter address sounds to her a little too free. She feels, perhaps,
that he has no rights of intimacy--at least not yet--or what does she
feel? But she gives her hand to Sligo Moultrie, and Abel bows.

"Thank you for a delightful evening, Mr. Newt. Good-night!"

The host bows again, bareheaded, in the moonlight.

"By-the-by, Mr. Moultrie," says the ringing voice of the clear-eyed girl,
who remembers that Abel is listening, but who is sure that only Sligo can
understand, "I ought to have told you that the story ended differently.
The Princess left the villa. Good-night! good-night!"

The carriage rattles down the street.

"Good-night, Newt; a very beautiful and pleasant party."

"Good-night, Moultrie--thank you; and pleasant dreams."

The young Georgian skips up the street, thinking only of Grace Plumer's
last words. Abel Newt stands at his door for a moment, remembering them
also, and perfectly understanding them. The next instant he is shawling
and cloaking the other ladies, who follow the Plumers; among them Mrs.
Dagon, who says, softly,

"Good-night, Abel. I like it all very well. A very proper girl! Such a
complexion! and such teeth! Such lovely little hands, too! It's all very
right. Go on, my dear. What a dreadful piece of work Fanny's made of it!
I wonder you don't like Hope Wayne. Think of it, a million of dollars!
However, it's all one, I suppose--Grace or Hope are equally pleasant.
Good-night, naughty boy! Behave yourself. As for your father, I'm afraid
to go to the house lest he should bite me. He's dangerous. Good-night,
dear!"

Yes, Abel r