e so happy. The grand people, the famous
people, the clever, worldly people she met made her very shy at
first, as may be easily imagined.

She was rather embarrassed by the attentions many smart men paid her
as to a very pretty woman, and not always pleased or edified. Her
deep sense of humor was often tickled by this new position in which
she found herself, and which she put down entirely to the fact that
she was Barty's wife.

She never thought much of her own beauty, which had never been made
much of at home, where beauty of a very different order was admired,
and where she was thought too tall, too pale, too slim, and
especially too quiet and sedate.

Dimpled little rosy plumpness for Mr. and Mrs. John Gilpin, and the
never-ending lively chatter, and the ever-ready laugh that results
from an entire lack of the real sense of humor and a laudable desire
to show one's pretty teeth.

Leah's only vanity was her fondness for being very well dressed; it
had become a second nature, especially her fondness for beautiful
French boots and shoes, an instinct inherited from her mother.

For these, and for pretty furniture and hangings, she had the truly
aesthetic eye, and was in advance of her time by at least a year.

She shone most in her own home--by her great faculty of making
others at home there, too, and disinclined to leave it. Her instinct
of hospitality was a true inheritance; she was good at the ordering
of all such things--food, wines, flowers, waiting, every little
detail of the dinner-table, and especially who should be asked to
meet whom, and which particular guests should be chosen to sit by
each other. All things of which Barty had no idea whatever.

I remember their first dinner-party well, and how pleasant it was.
How good the fare, and how simple; and how quick the hired
waiting--and the wines! how--(but I won't talk of that); and how
lively we all were, and how handsome the women. Lady Caroline and
Miss Daphne Rohan, Mr. and Mrs. Graham-Reece, Scatcherd and my
sister; G. du Maurier (then a bachelor) and myself--that was the
party, a very lively one.

After dinner du Maurier and Barty sang capital songs of the quartier
latin, and told stories of the atelier, and even danced a kind of
cancan together--an invention of their own--which they called "_le
dernier des Abencerrages_." We were in fits of laughter, especially
Lady Caroline and Mrs. Graham-Reece. I hope D. M. has not forgotten
that scene, an