hat made him as destructive of
coherence in company as a large frisking pup. Leslie had at the very
first meeting felt that it would be her sacred mission to attend to that
young man.

The hired pianist had come, he was unrolling his sheets of dance-music
and rolling them the contrary way. Mr. Hunt, the English banker, with
his wife and daughters, had come; and Maestro Vannuccini with his
signora on his arm; and a glittering young officer or two; and Landini,
Hunt's partner; and Charlie Hunt, the banker's nephew.

Charlie, bold through long acquaintance, asked, "Where are the others?"

Leslie told him, whereupon the young man said "Oh!" and his "Oh" sounded
blank, whether because it was apparent to him through her answer that
there had been indiscretion in his question, or because he wondered at
there being a dinner-party in this house and he not asked to it. Leslie
paid no attention, for at that moment the diners were beginning to
appear.

The drawing-room had two doors in the same wall: people coming from the
dining-room would enter by one of these, while those who came from the
street entered by the other, after passing through the small
reception-room where they left their things, and the larger
reception-room intervening between this and the drawing-room. Charlie
Hunt, talking with Mrs. Satterlee, let a casual eye roll away from her
middle-aged agreeableness to see who was entering by that different door
from the one which had given him passage. Curiosity, pure and simple.

Ah, so. Madame Balm de Breze, spare, sharp, high-nosed, beaked and
clawed like a bird--a picked bird. Very elegant. It was clear to Charlie
Hunt why with a dinner to give one should care to secure her and her
husband. They looked so fiendishly aristocratic.

The Felixsons. Naturally. Felixson had to be asked when the guest of
honor was a scholar. Mrs. Felixson's warm brilliancy to-night bore
testimony to a good dinner. Abundance of meats and wines always turned
her a burning pink. It looked to Charlie like a new frock she was
wearing; he did not remember seeing her in it before.

Gideon Hart, the old sculptor. It was his picturesque white hair and
beard that people liked to see at their tables, for the old fellow,
thought Hunt, was phenomenally a bore. In this case patriotism explained
his presence. America quaintly loved his name.

And Cecilia Brown. But was it really Cecilia?... What had she been doing
to herself?... Oh. Her hair. Her