g-faced, white-headed Van Clupp
conversed condescendingly with Mr. Rush-Marvelle, as being a nonentity
of a man whom he could safely patronize.

As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm hues of the
summer twilight softened the landscape, the merriment of the brilliant
assembly seemed to increase. As soon as it was dark, the grounds were to
be illuminated by electricity, and dancing was to be continued
indoors--the fine old picture-gallery being the place chosen for the
purpose. Nothing that could add to the utmost entertainment of the
guests had been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mistress of these
pleasant revels, noting with quiet eyes the evident enjoyment of all
present, felt very happy and tranquil. She had exerted herself a good
deal, and was now a little tired. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look,
and she found her thoughts wandering, now and then, away to the
Altenfjord--she almost fancied she could hear the sigh of the pines and
the dash of the waves mingling in unison as they used to do when she sat
at the old farm-house window and span, little dreaming then how her life
would change--how all those familiar things would be swept away as
though they had never been. She roused herself from this momentary
reverie, and glancing down at the recumbent gentleman at her feet,
touched his shoulder lightly with the edge of her fan.

"Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer?" she asked, with a
smile.

He turned up his fair, half-boyish face to hers and laughed.

"Dance! I! Good gracious! Such an exertion would kill me, Lady
Errington--don't you know that? I am of a Sultan-like disposition--I
shouldn't mind having slaves to dance for me if they did it well--but I
should look on from the throne whereon I sat cross-legged,--and smoke my
pipe in peace."

"Always the same!" she said lightly. "Are you never serious?"

His eyes darkened suddenly. "Sometimes. Awfully so! And in that
condition I become a burden to myself and my friends."

"Never be serious!" interposed Beau Lovelace, "it really isn't worth
while! Cultivate the humor of a Socrates, and reduce everything by means
of close argument to its smallest standpoint, and the world, life, and
time are no more than a pinch of snuff for some great Titantic god to
please his giant nose withal!"

"Your fame isn't worth much then, Beau, if we're to go by that line of
argument," remarked Errington, with a laugh.

"Fame! By Jove! You don't suppos