tion at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader,
and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression
on those fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won
the respect of the men by his observations on matters of international
interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric
estimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which
subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied
gallantry.

During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur
in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn
and whispered: "Who is the charming young woman just entering?"

"The beauty in white?"

"Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He
leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the
new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from
between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the instant, a perfect
embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken
drapery.

"That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New
York's prominent bankers."

"She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with a
mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to
present him.

And thus they met.

Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her
receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the
season, and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an
international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many,
aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin,
from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory
joy--and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded.

Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory.

"A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his
richly melodious voice.

"But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," she
replied.

"Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within our
grasp, the attainment is possible."

"For example?" she asked.

"The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when
he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are
antipodal."

"Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?"
she suggested doubtingly.

"That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness