"Then do tell me, now, something of the sort of people you are fond of;
the chances are that I shall like them just as well as the others."

Beecher and Davis exchanged glances of most intense significance; and
were it not from downright fear, Beecher would have burst out laughing.

"Then I will ask Mr. Beecher," said she, gayly. "_You 'll_ not be so
churlish as papa, I 'm certain. _You 'll_ tell me what his world is
like?"

"Well, it's a very smart world too," said Beecher, slyly enjoying the
malicious moment of worrying Grog with impunity. "Not so many pretty
women in it, perhaps, but plenty of movement, plenty of fun,--eh, Davis?
Are you fond of horses, Miss Davis?"

"Passionately; and I flatter myself I can ride too. By the way, is it
true, papa, you have brought a horse from England for me?"

"Who could have told you that?" said Davis, almost sternly.

"My maid heard it from a groom that has just arrived, but with such
secrecy that I suppose I have destroyed all the pleasure of the surprise
you intended me; never mind, dearest pa, I am just as grateful--"

"Grateful for nothing," broke in Davis. "The groom is a prating rascal,
and your maid ought to mind her own affairs." Then reddening to his
temples with shame at his ill-temper, he added, "There is a horse, to be
sure, but he ain't much of a lady's palfrey."

"What would you say to her riding Klepper in the Allee Verte,--it might
be a rare stroke?" asked Beecher, in a whisper to Davis.

"Do you think that _she_ is to be brought into _our_ knaveries? Is
_that_ all you have learned from what I 've been saying to you?"
whispered Davis, with a look of such savage ferocity that Beecher grew
sick at heart with terror.

"I 'm sorry to break in upon such confidential converse," said she,
laughingly, "but pray remember we are losing the first scene of the
opera."

"I 'm at your orders," said Beecher, as, with his accustomed easy
gallantry, he stepped forward to offer her his arm.

The opera was a favorite one, and the house was crowded in every part.
As in all cities of a certain rank, the occupants of the boxes, with a
few rare exceptions, were the same well-known people who, night after
night, follow along the worn track of pleasure. To them the stage is but
a secondary object, to which attention only wanders at intervals. The
house itself, the brilliant blaze of beauty, the splendor of diamonds,
the display of dress, and, more than all these, the subtl