over me), but witches are not to be depended
upon! I am sure I think what a fool I am for consulting them at all."
She espies, for her trade of sin hath made keen her eye, the venerable
figure of Judge Sleepyhorn advancing up the hall, masked. "Couldn't get
along without you," she lisps, tripping towards him, and greeting him
with the familiarity of an intimate friend. "I'm rather aristocratic,
you'll say!--and I confess I am, though a democrat in principle!" And
Madame Flamingo confirms what she says with two very dignified nods. As
the Judge passes silently in she pats him encouragingly on the back,
saying,--"There ain't no one in this house what'll hurt a hair on your
head." The Judge heeds not what she says.

"My honor for it, Madame, but I think your guests highly favored,
altogether! Fine weather, and the prospect of a _bal-masque_ of Pompeian
splendor. The old Judge, eh?"

"The gods smile--the gods smile, Mr. Soloman!" interrupts the hostess,
bowing and swaying her head in rapid succession.

"The gods have their eye on him to-night--he's a marked man! A jolly old
cove of a Judge, he is! Cares no more about rules and precedents, on the
bench, than he does for the rights and precedents some persons profess
to have in this house. A high old blade to administer justice, eh?"

"But, you see, Mr. Soloman," the hostess interrupts, a gracious bow
keeping time with the motion of her hand, "he is such an aristocratic
prop in the character of my house."

"I rather like that, I confess, Madame. You have grown rich off the
aristocracy. Now, don't get into a state of excitement!" says Mr.
Soloman, fingering his long Saxon beard, and eyeing her mischievously.
She sees a bevy of richly-dressed persons advancing up the hall in high
glee. Indeed her house is rapidly filling to the fourth story. And yet
they come! she says. "The gods are in for a time. I love to make the
gods happy."

Mr. Soloman has lain his hand upon her arm retentively.

"It is not that the aristocracy and such good persons as the Judge spend
so much here. But they give _eclat_ to the house, and _eclat_ is money.
That's it, sir! Gold is the deity of _our_ pantheon! Bless you (the
hostess evinces the enthusiasm of a politician), what better evidence of
the reputation of my house than is before you, do you want? I've shut up
the great Italian opera, with its three squalling prima donnas, which in
turn has shut up the poor, silly _Empresario_ as they call hi