g, rose-heaped table, with its glitter
of glass and silver, and the solemn perfection of the serving-men; a
spectacle not important in itself was dear to her from association with
gayeties, which now, for a wicked moment, seemed to her better than
love.

There were all sorts of people: artists and actors, as well as people of
fashion. Her friend had given her some society notable to go out with,
but she had appointed for the chair next her, on the other hand, a young
man in a pretty pointed beard, whom she introduced across from the head
of the table as soon as she could civilly take the notable to herself.
Louise did not catch his name, and it seemed presently that he had not
heard hers, but their acquaintance prospered without this knowledge. He
made some little jokes, which she promptly responded to, and they talked
awhile as if they were both New-Yorkers, till she said, at some remark
of his, "But I am not a New-Yorker," and then he said, "Well, neither am
I," and offered to tell her what he was if she would tell him what she
was.

"Oh, I'm from Boston, of course," she answered, but then, instead of
saying where he was from, he broke out:

"Now I will fulfil my vow!"

"Your vow? What is your vow?"

"To ask the first Boston person I met if that Boston person knew
anything about another Boston person, who wrote a most remarkable play I
saw in the fall out at home."

"A play?" said Louise, with a total loss of interest in the gentleman's
city or country.

"Yes, by a Boston man named Maxwell--"

Louise stared at him, and if their acquaintance had been a little older,
she might have asked him to come off. As it was she could not speak, and
she let him go on.

"I don't know when I've ever had a stronger impression in the theatre
than I had from that play. Perfectly modern, and perfectly American." He
briefly sketched it. "It was like a terrible experience on the tragic
side, and on the other side it was a rapture. I never saw love-making on
the stage before that made me wish to be a lover--"

A fire-red flew over Louise's face, and she said, almost snubbingly, as
if he had made some unwarrantable advance: "I think I had better not let
you go on. It was my husband who wrote that play. I am Mrs. Maxwell."

"Mrs. Maxwell! You are Mrs. Maxwell?" he gasped, and she could not doubt
the honesty of his amaze.

His confusion was so charming that she instantly relented. "Of course I
should like to have you go on all