There's a demonish clever young fellow by the name of Lindsay," Mr.
Livingston Jenkins said to her a little before the day of the party.
"Better ask him. They say he 's the rising talent in his line,
architecture mainly, but has done some remarkable things in the way of
sculpture. There's some story about a bust he made that was quite
wonderful. I'll find his address for you." So Mr. Clement Lindsay got
his invitation, and thus Mrs. Clymer Ketchum's party promised to bring
together a number of persons with whom we are acquainted, and who were
acquainted with each other.

Mrs. Clymer Ketchum knew how to give a party. Let her only have carte
blanche for flowers, music, and champagne, she used to tell her lord, and
she would see to the rest,--lighting the rooms, tables, and toilet. He
needn't be afraid: all he had to do was to keep out of the way.

Subdivision of labor is one of the triumphs of modern civilization. Labor
was beautifully subdivided in this lady's household. It was old
Ketchum's business to make money, and he understood it. It was Mrs. K.'s
business to spend money, and she knew how to do it. The rooms blazed
with light like a conflagration; the flowers burned like lamps of
many-colored flame; the music throbbed into the hearts of the promenaders
and tingled through all the muscles of the dancers.

Mrs. Clymer Ketchum was in her glory. Her point d'Alenyon must have
spoiled ever so many French girls' eyes. Her bosom heaved beneath a kind
of breastplate glittering with a heavy dew of diamonds. She glistened
and sparkled with every movement, so that the admirer forgot to question
too closely whether the eyes matched the brilliants, or the cheeks glowed
like the roses. Not far from the great lady stood Myrtle Hazard. She
was dressed as the fashion of the day demanded, but she had added certain
audacious touches of her own, reminiscences of the time when the dead
beauty had flourished, and which first provoked the question and then the
admiration of the young people who had a natural eye for effect. Over
the long white glove on her left arm was clasped a rich bracelet, of so
quaint an antique pattern that nobody had seen anything like it, and as
some one whispered that it was "the last thing out," it was greatly
admired by the fashion-plate multitude, as well as by the few who had a
taste of their own. If the soul of Judith Pride, long divorced from its
once beautifully moulded dust, ever lived in