wt
and Moultrie make only a general reply.

As the dinner proceeds from delicate course to course, and the wines of
varying hue sparkle and flow, so the conversation purls along--a gentle,
continuous stream. Good things are said, and there is that kind of happy
appreciation which makes the generally silent speak and the clever more
witty.

Mrs. Godefroi Plumer has traveled much, and enjoys the world. She is a
Creole, with the Tropics in her hair and complexion, and Spain in her
eyes. She wears a Parisian headdress, a brocade upon her ample person,
and diamonds around her complacent neck and arms. Diamonds also flash in
the fan which she sways gently, admiring Prince Abel. Diamonds--huge
solitaires--glitter likewise in the ears of Miss Grace. She wears also a
remarkable bracelet of the same precious stones; for the rest, her dress
is a cloud of Mechlin lace. She has quick, dark eyes, and an olive skin.
Her hands and feet are small. She has filbert nails and an arched instep.
Prince Abel, who hangs upon his wall the portrait of the last Newmarket
victor, has not omitted to observe these details. He thinks how they
would grace a larger house, a more splendid table.

Sligo Moultrie remembers a spacious country mansion, surrounded by a
silent plantation, somewhat fallen from its state, whom such a mistress
would superbly restore. He looks a man too refined to wed for money,
perhaps too indolently luxurious to love without it.

Half hidden under the muslin drapery by the window hangs a cage with
a canary. The bird sits silent; but as the feast proceeds he pours a
shrill strain into the murmur of the guests. For the noise of the
golden-breasted bird Sligo Moultrie can not hear something that is
said to him by the ripe mouth between the solitaires. He asks pardon,
and it is repeated.

Then, still smiling and looking toward the window, he says, and, as he
says it, his eyes--at which he knows his companion is looking--wander
over the room,

"A very pretty cage!"

The eyes drop upon hers as they finish the circuit of the room. They say
no more than the lips have said. And Miss Grace Plumer answers,

"I thought you were going to say a very noisy bird."

"But the bird is not very noisy," says the young man, his dark eyes still
holding hers.

There is a moment of silence, during which Miss Plumer may have her fancy
of what he means. If so, she does not choose to betray it. If her eyes
are clear and shrewd, the woman's wi