rawing-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 within her power."

"The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her
into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her
sorrow."

"But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can
bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential,
he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleries
that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It
is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the
Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dr