with its august presence the ball which Mrs. Clement
Rutherford proposed giving on Shrove Tuesday, which in that year came
about the middle of March. But as to that, it was generally conceded that
they would. Youth, beauty, wealth and the shadow of an old family name
could cover a multitude of such sins as rapid manners, desperate
flirtations and a questionable origin; and notwithstanding her fastness,
and, worse still, her _ci-devant_ governess-ship, Mrs. Clement Rutherford
was a decided social success.

On the day succeeding that oh which he had arrived, Horace made his
appearance at his brother's house. Clement had not heard of his return,
and received him with a cordiality strikingly at variance with his usual
manner.

"Come into the library," he said, after the first greetings had been
exchanged. "I have some fine cigars for you to try, and you can tell me
something about your travels."

"Thank you, Clement: I believe I must decline your offer. I have a message
for your wife: can I see her?"

A cloud swept over the brow of the elder brother.

"I suppose you can," he said, coldly, looking at his watch as he spoke.
"Two o'clock. She took breakfast about half an hour ago, so she is
probably at home. You had better go up stairs to her _boudoir_, as she
calls it, and Christine, her maid, will tell her that you wish to see
her."

He turned away, and was about to leave the room when Horace caught his
hand.

"Clement! brother! Answer me one question: Are you happy in your married
life?"

"Go ask the scandal-mongers of New York," was the bitter reply: "_they_
are eloquent respecting the perfection of my connubial bliss."

"If she had been a kind and affectionate wife, if she had made him happy,"
muttered Horace as he ascended the stairs, "my task would have been a
harder one. Now my duty is clear, and my course lies smooth and straight
before, me."

The room into which he was ushered by Christine, the pretty French maid,
was a perfect marvel of elegance and extravagance. It was very small, and
on every part of it had been lavished all that the combined efforts of
taste and expenditure could achieve. The walls had been painted in fresco
by an eminent Italian artist, and bevies of rosy Cupids, trailing after
them garlands of many-hued flowers, disported on a background of a
delicate green tint. The same tints and design were repeated in the
Aubusson carpet, and on the fine Gobelin tapestry which covered the few