ate homage. Irene understood. She knew
at once that this man was a little dazed by her beauty, just as many
other men had been. Puny, delicate, namby-pamby men she despised, and
always gave them a cut with her sharp tongue. Where had Sylvie picked up
this Saul among his peers?

They were all interested in the pictures, and soon fell to making merry
comments on them. Sylvie had a quick eye and a bright wit, and something
made Jack Darcy brilliant. They selected bits of fine taste here, they
made an elegant costume of no particular style, and Irene was struck
with what she knew would be its becomingness.

"Mr. Darcy, are you an artist?" She remembered just then what an odd way
the Barrys had of picking up people with some gift or grace.

"No," and Jack flushed boyishly.

"Then you must have a houseful of sisters."

"No, I never had a sister."

"When all things else fail with you, you can set up opposition to Worth.
I shall come to you for designs. Now, this will be a peculiar source of
gratification to me, because no one can possibly have the same
combination. And you never can depend upon a modiste. Mr. Darcy, what
makes women so faithless to one another?"

"Are they?" he asked with a man's simplicity.

She laughed gayly, and met Jack's fun-loving, shady blue eyes. How
handsome they were!

Miss Barry entered the room, and joined in the pleasant chat: then a
rumble of carriage-wheels was heard.

"It has stopped raining," said Sylvie, going to the window. "A few soft,
melancholy stars have come out."

"You have been very obliging, Sylvie," said Miss Lawrence. "Miss Barry,
I shall send the carriage over to-morrow. Good-night."

Jack Darcy handed her out, pushing aside a trailing rose that it might
not catch her shawl. Then she half turned, and said "Good-night" in a
softer tone.

Sylvie was standing on the porch. "It has been as good as a play, Jack,"
she said with her gay-humored laugh. "I don't believe she ever
thought"--

"That I worked in her father's mill!" and Jack laughed; but it was a
rather pained, jarring sound.

"Jack--why do you? You are a puzzle to me!" and Sylvie's voice sharpened
unconsciously. "You do not like it. Why did you not go on at the
academy, or"--

"Raise myself in the social scale? That's what you mean, Sylvie;
although we pass just as pleasant hours as if I were a prince, and you
the lady of high degree. Well, we have gone over the ground a good many
times, and it is always