o be seen, clad in the
memorable white dressing-gown of the evening before, making a careful
choice between two bracelets she holds in her hands.

"Is that the garment in which you so much distinguished yourself last
night?" Sir Penthony cannot help asking; and, with a little start and
blush, she raises her eyes.

"Is it you?" she says, smiling. "Yes, this is the identical robe.
Won't you come in, Sir Penthony? You are quite welcome. If you have
nothing better to do you can stay with and talk to me for a little."

"I have plenty to do,"--coming in and closing the door,--"but nothing I
would not gladly throw over to accept an invitation from you."

"Dear me! What a charming speech! What a courtier you would have made!
Consider yourself doubly welcome. I adore pretty speeches, when
addressed to myself. Now, sit there, while I decide on what jewelry I
shall wear to-night."

"So this is her sanctum," thinks her husband, glancing around. What a
dainty nest it is, with its innumerable feminine fineries, its piano,
its easel, its pretty pink-and-blue _cretonnne_, its wealth of
flowers, although the season is of the coldest and bleakest.

A cozy fire burns brightly. In the wall opposite is an open door,
through which one catches a glimpse of the bedroom beyond, decked out
in all its pink-and-white glory. There is a very sociable little clock,
a table strewn with wools and colored silks, and mirrors everywhere.

As for Cecil herself, with honest admiration her husband carefully
regards her. What a pretty woman she is! full of all the tender graces,
the lovable caprices, that wake the heart to fondness.

How charming a person to come to in grief or trouble, or even in one's
gladness! How full of gayety, yet immeasurable tenderness, is her
speaking face! Verily, there is a depth of sympathy to be found in a
pretty woman that a plain one surely lacks.

Her white gown becomes her _a merveille_, and fits her to
perfection. She cannot be called fat, but as certainly she cannot be
called thin. When people speak of her with praise, they never fail to
mention the "pretty roundness" of her figure.

Her hair has partly come undone, and hangs in a fair, loose coil,
rather lower than usual, upon her neck. This suits her, making still
softer her soft though _piquante_ face.

Her white and jeweled fingers are busy in the case before her as, with
puckered brows, she sighs over the difficulty of making a wise and
becoming choice in