wild-flowers.

The umber-colored silk she wore toned down what I, who fancied the
delicate sea-shell hue of blondes, should have termed her rather strong
colors; and now, bent on my enjoyment rather than improvement, she
looked much younger, and certainly far handsomer, than I had supposed
she could. Her entire self-possession, the familiarity with which she
approached human beings, Nature, and Art, were to me so many indications
of her power, and because of my own awe in the presence of any
revelation of beauty or intellect, seemed the more wonderful. In
admiration of her ease, I became at ease myself, and was thoroughly
enjoying her gay mood, which puzzled while it charmed me, when the glass
door opening into the drawing-room was pushed aside, and Mr. Lang
entered.

"Good evening, Sandy. Alice and Mr. Leopold have been inquiring for you,
Miss Darry; but don't run away with those baskets so quickly. I want a
few blossoms for Alice's hair. Yours is gorgeous, tropical. Sandy's here
has as much of a wild-wood appearance as exotics will admit of. One
would think Nature was in league with Darley in making these ferns; they
are outlines merely; but this rich red japonica in the centre, on its
cushion of white flowers, shows you a genuine colorist, Sandy."

Miss Darry, making some gay reply, gave me a basket, which, designedly
or not, made me less awkwardly conscious of my hands, and we entered the
drawing-room. Unaccustomed to gayeties of any kind, I was quite dazzled
by the sudden and brilliant blaze of light, the few guests already
assembled, and by Miss Merton's beauty enveloped in soft floating folds
of gossamer, looking as though the mist itself had woven her a garment.
No time, however, was given in which I could relapse into
self-consciousness. Miss Darry occupied me with various statuettes and
engravings, until Mr. Lang rejoined us, accompanied by a gentleman whom
he introduced to me as Mr. Leopold, the painter of the picture which I
was to see in the course of the evening. Although my reading had
necessarily been limited, Miss Darry's persistent training, and my own
voracious appetite for information in everything relating to the arts,
had given me a somewhat superficial knowledge of the pictures, style,
and personal appearance of the best old and modern painters. In spite of
some obstinate facts tending to a different conclusion, I had imbibed
the conventional idea of a genius, that he must dwell in an ethereali