enlightenment, and the deterioration of the physical and moral
constitution through the defeasance of the law of Natural
Selection.'"

Lifting her champagne glass, Olga sipped the amber bubbles from its
brim, and slightly bent her head in acknowledgment.

"Thanks. I disclaim any doubt of the accuracy of his pedigree from
the monad, through the ape, up to the present erudite philosopher;
but I humbly crave permission to assert a far different lineage for
myself. Pray, Doctor, train your battery now upon Mr. Palma, and
since he assails you with Greg, _minus_ quotation marks, require him
to avow his real sentiments concerning that sentence in 'De
Profundis': 'That purely political conception of religion which
regards the Ten Commandments as a sort of 'cheap defence' of property
and life, God Almighty as an ubiquitous and unpaid Policeman, and
Hell as a self-supporting jail, a penal settlement at the
Antipodes!'"

Prudent Mrs. Palma rose at that moment, and the party left the
dining-room.

Mrs. St. Clare called Regina to her sofa, to make some inquiries
about the Cantata, and when the latter was released, he saw that both
Mr. Chesley and Mr. Palma were absent.

A half-hour elapsed, during which Olga continued to annoy the learned
small man with her irreverent flippancy, and Mrs. Carew seemed to
fascinate the two gentlemen who hovered about her like eager moths
around a lamp. Then the host and Congressman came in together, and
Regina saw her guardian cross the room, and murmur something to his
fair client, who smilingly assented.

Mr. Chesley looked at the widow, and at Olga, and his eyes came back,
and dwelt upon the young girl who stood leaning against Mrs. Palma's
chair.

Her dress was a pearl white alpaca, with no trimming, save tulle
ruchings at throat and wrists, and a few violets fastened in the
cameo Psyche that constituted her brooch.

Pure, pale, almost sad, she looked in that brilliant drawing-room
like some fragile snowdrop, astray in a bed of gorgeous peonies and
poppies.

Lifting her eyes to her host, as he leaned over the back of her sofa,
Mrs. Carew said:

"Miss Orme poses almost faultlessly; she has evidently studied all
the rules of the art. Quite pretty too; and her hair has a peculiar
gloss that reminds one of the pounded peach-stones with which Van
Dyck glazed his pictures."

The fingers of the hand that hung at his side clenched suddenly, but
adjusting his glasses more firmly he said ve