heard at least that much before they came.

There had been much discussion of her, though only one or two had caught
glimpses of her; but most of the gallants appeared to agree with Crailey
Gray, who aired his opinion--in an exceedingly casual way--at the little
club on Main Street. Mr. Gray held that when the daughter of a man as
rich as Bob Carewe was heralded as a beauty the chances were that she
would prove disappointing, and, for his part, he was not even interested
enough to attend and investigate. So he was going down the river in a
canoe and preferred the shyness of bass to that of a girl of eighteen
just from the convent, he said. Tom Vanrevel was not present on the
occasion of these remarks; and the general concurrence with Crailey may
be suspected as a purely verbal one, since, when the evening came,
two of the most enthusiastic dancers and love-makers of the town,
the handsome Tappingham Marsh and that doughty ex-dragoon and Indian
fighter, stout old General Trumble, were upon the field before the enemy
appeared; that is to say, they were in the new ball-room before their
host; indeed, the musicians had not arrived, and Nelson, an aged negro
servitor, was engaged in lighting the house.

The crafty pair had planned this early descent with a view to monopoly
by right of priority, in case the game proved worth the candle, and they
were leaning effectively against the little railing about the musicians'
platform when Mr. Carewe entered the room with his daughter on his arm.

She was in white, touched with countless small lavender flowers; there
were rows and rows of wonderful silk and lace flounces on her skirt, and
her fan hung from a rope of great pearls. Ah, hideous, blue, rough cloth
of the convent, unforgotten, but laid aside forever, what a chrysalis
you were!

Tappingham twitched his companion's sleeve, but the General was already
posing; and neither heard the words of presentation, because Miss Betty
gave each of them a quick look, then smiled upon them as they bowed; the
slayers were prostrated before their prey. Never were lady-killers more
instantaneously tamed and subjugated by the power of the feminine eye.
Will Cummings came in soon, and, almost upon his heels, Eugene Madrillon
and young Frank Chenoweth. No others appeared for half an hour, and
the five gentlemen looked at one another aside, each divining his own
diplomacy in his fellow's eye, and each laboriously explaining to
the others his ow