m the face of the lord of the
feast. It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression.
There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those who
had seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her--a look
with which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar. But the companions
of his revels were not shrewd of vision. It was not Herbert Octoyne, nor
Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any
other of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddly
enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans.

She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more
luxurious than they. For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt,
Mrs. Plumer had consented to accept an invitation to a little supper at
his rooms--very small and very select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to be
present.

The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from mamma excused her
absence--papa somewhat indisposed, and so forth; and Mr. Abel himself so
sorry--but Mrs. Plumer knows what these husbands are! Meanwhile the
ladies have thrown off their shawls.

The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served. Prince Abel, with royal
grace, presides. By every lady's plate a pretty bouquet; the handsomest
of all not by Miss, but by Mrs. Plumer. Flowers are every where. It is
Grand Street, indeed, in the city; but the garden at Pinewood, perhaps,
does not smell more sweetly.

"There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the very breath of
our Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover does not grow in the city,
Miss Grace."

Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his voice and
face turn toward the daughter as it ends.

Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of many-colored
materials and of various shapes upon tables about the room. The last new
books, in English editions often, and a few solid classics, are in sight.
Pictures also.

"What a lovely Madonna!" says Miss Plumer, as she raises her eyes to a
beautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite upon the wall; which,
indeed, was intended to be observed by her.

"Yes. It is the Sistine, you know," says the Prince, as he sees that the
waiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer.

The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving which usually
hangs there. Usually it is a pretty-colored French print representing
"Lucille," a young woman who has apparently very recently issued from the
bat