he lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly
light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!

CHAPTER XXIII. A SMALL SUPPER PARTY.

THE great ball at the Mazzarini Palace "came off" just as other great
balls have done, and will continue to do, doubtless, for ages hence.
There was the usual, perhaps a little more than the usual, splendor of
dress and diamonds; the same glare and crash and glitter and crowd
and heat; the same buoyant light-heartedness among the young; the same
corroding ennui of the old; taste in dress was criticised, looks were
scanned, flirtations detected, quarrels discovered, fans were mislaid,
hearts were lost, flounces were torn, and feelings hurt. There was
the ordinary measure of what people call enjoyment, mixed up with the
ordinary proportion of envy, shyness, pretension, sarcasm, coldness, and
malice. It was a grand tournament of human passions in white satin and
jewels; and if the wounds exchanged were not as rudely administered,
they were to the full as dangerous as in the real lists of combat.
Yet, in this mortal conflict, all seemed happy. There was an air of
voluptuous abandonment over everything; and whatever cares they might
have carried within, as far as appearance went, the world went well and
pleasantly with them. The ball was, however, a splendid one; there
was everything that could make it such. The salons were magnificent in
decoration; the lighting a perfect blaze. There was beauty in
abundance, diamonds in masses, and a Royal Highness from the Court, an
insignificant little man, it is true, with a star and a stutter, who
stared at every one, and spoke to nobody. Still he was the centre of
a glittering group of handsome aides-de-camp, who displayed their
fascinations in every gesture and look.

Apart from the great flood-tide of pleasure, down which so many float
buoyantly, there is ever on these occasions a deeper current that flows
beneath, of human wile and cunning and strategy, just as, in many
a German fairy tale, some curious and recondite philosophy lies hid
beneath the little incidents related to amuse childhood. It would lead
us too far from the path of our story were we to seek for this "tiny
thread amid the woof;" enough for our present purpose if we slightly
advert to it, by asking our reader to accompany us to the small chamber
which called Albert Jekyl master, and where now, at midnight, a little
table of three covers was laid for su