at their disposal whenever they wish to give an evening party,
reception, or _the dansant_. What more could they gain by setting up a
private house? Mr. Briggs, having never tried the experiment, does not
know. Mrs. Briggs, whose only reminiscence of a private residence is the
one in which her mother let lodgings, does not know. Miss Flora Van
Duysen Briggs, having never been used to any other way of life than the
present, neither knows nor cares, and 'does not want to be bothered.'

"The Briggs family spend their winters in town, their summers at Newport,
Saratoga, or some other watering-place, at which nobody cares anything
about the water. The frequenters of these rural or seaside retreats are
presumed to come for their health, but really come to show their dresses.
Thus Miss Flora's life varies very little all the year round; she rises
late, and is dressed for breakfast; after breakfast she practises upon
the piano, shops with her mamma, and returns to be dressed for luncheon;
after luncheon she usually takes a brief nap, or lies down to read a
novel, and is then dressed for the afternoon promenade, as you have just
seen her; after the promenade she is dressed for a drive with mamma in
the Central Park; after the drive she is dressed for dinner, or dines in
her out-of-door costume, preparatory to being dressed for the opera, the
theatre, a ball, or a party. Every Tuesday she receives calls; every
Thursday she calls upon her acquaintances. Whenever she has a spare
moment, it is bestowed upon her dressmaker. If she thinks, it is to
design new trimmings; if she dreams, it is of a heavenly _soiree
dansante_, with an eternal waltz to everlasting music, and a tireless
partner in paradisiacal Paris.

"As all the best and--in a double sense--the dearest things of Miss
Flora's life come from Paris, it is quite natural that she should look to
Paris for her future. The best of all authorities declares that 'where
the treasure is there will the heart be also.' Miss Flora's treasures
are in the Parisian _magasins_, and her heart is with them. Although
scores of young men kneel at her feet, press her hands, and deride the
stars in comparison with her eyes, she cares for none of her worshippers.
She smiles upon them, but the smile is no deeper than the lips; she
flirts with them, but stops at that sharp, invisible line which separates
a flirtation from a compromising earnestness; she is a coquette, but not
a jilt. If