s up."

"But for you, a girl under twenty, my dear--"

"Mamma, what does it matter? The question is, am I to look my best?
which I think is my duty to you and to Providence; or am I just," said
Phoebe, with indignation, "to look a little insipidity--a creature with
no character--a little girl like everybody else?"

The consequence of this solemn appeal was that both the Phoebes went to
Mr. Copperhead's ball in black; the elder in velvet, with Honiton lace
(point, which Phoebe, with her artistic instincts, would have much
preferred, being unattainable); the younger in tulle, flounced to
distraction, and largely relieved with blue. And the consequence of this
toilette, and of the fact that Phoebe did her duty by her parents and by
Providence, and looked her very best, was that Clarence Copperhead fell
a hopeless victim to her fascinations, and scarcely could be induced to
leave her side all night. The ball was about as remarkable a ball as
could have been seen in London. The son of the house had contemplated
with absolute despair the list of invitations. He had deprecated the
entertainment altogether. He had said, "We know nobody," with a
despairing impertinence which called forth one of his father's roars of
laughter. And though Mr. Copperhead had done all he could to assume the
position of that typical Paterfamilias who is condemned to pay for those
pleasures of his family which are no pleasure to him, yet common-sense
was too much for him, and everybody felt that he was in reality the
giver and enjoyer of the entertainment. It was Mr., not Mrs.
Copperhead's ball. It was the first of the kind which had ever taken
place in his house; the beginning of a new chapter in his social
existence. Up to this moment he had not shown any signs of being smitten
with that craze for "Society," which so often and so sorely affects the
millionnaire. He had contented himself hitherto with heavy and showy
dinners, costing Heaven knows how much a head (Mr. Copperhead knew, and
swelled visibly in pride and pleasure as the cost increased), which he
consumed in company with twenty people or so of kindred tastes to
himself, who appreciated the cost and understood his feelings. On such
people, however, his Dresden china was thrown away. Joe and Mrs. Joe
were much more in their way than the elegant University man and the
well-bred mother, who was "a poor little dowdy," they all said.
Therefore the fact had been forced upon Mr. Copperhead that