Through several days spent listlessly except when dolefully, and through several restless nights, Philip Hayn was assisted by one hope that changed only to brighten: it was that nearer and nearer came the night of the party to which Miss Agnes Dinon had invited him,—the party at which he was sure he would again meet Lucia. Except for the blissful incident of the arrested drive on the Avenue, he had not seen her since the evening when he had raised her hand to his lips. How the thought of that moment sent the blood leaping to his own finger-tips! He had haunted the Avenue every afternoon, not daring to hope that the carriage would again be stopped in its course, but that at least he might see her passing face. As quick as a flash that day his eye, trained in country fashion to first identify approaching riders by their horses, had scanned the animals that drew the carriage, so that he might know them when next he saw them. But again and again was he disappointed, for spans on which he would have staked his reputation as being the same were drawing carriages that did not contain the face he sought. He might have been spared many heart-sinkings, as well as doubts of his horse-lore, had he known that the Tramlays did not keep a turn-out, but had recourse to a livery-stable when they wanted to drive.

He had even sought Lucia at church. He had known, since the family’s summer at Haynton, the name of the church which they attended, and thither he wended his way Sunday morning; but their pew was apparently farther back than the seat to which he was shown, for not one member of the Tramlay family could he see in front or to either side of him, and when the service ended and he reached the sidewalk as rapidly as possible he soon learned that the custom of rural young men to stand in front of churches to see the worshippers emerge was not followed at fashionable temples in the city.

Another comforting hope, which was sooner lost in full fruition, was in the early arrival of his dress-suit. Fully-arrayed, he spent many hours before the mirror in his room at the hotel, endeavoring to look like some of the gentlemen whom he had seen at the Tramlay reception. Little though he admired Marge on general principles, he did not hesitate to conform himself as nearly as possible to that gentleman’s splendid composure. Strolling into a theatre one evening on a “general admission” ticket, which entitled him to the privilege of leaning against a wall, he saw quite a number of men in evening dress, and he improved the opportunity to study the comparative effects of different styles of collars and shirt-fronts. Finally he ventured to appear at the theatre in evening dress himself, and from the lack of special attention he justly flattered himself that he did not carry himself unlike other men. He also made the important discovery that Judge Dickman’s custom of buttoning his swallow-tailed coat at the waist, and displaying a yellow silk handkerchief in the fulness thereof, had been abandoned in the metropolis.

At last the long-hoped-for evening arrived, and Phil was fully dressed and uncomfortable before sunset. He had already learned, by observation, that well-dressed men kept their faces closely shaved, and he had experimented, not without an inward groan at his extravagance, in what to him were the mysteries of hair-dressing. He ventured into the streets as soon as darkness had fairly fallen, made his way to the vicinity of the Dinon residence, and from a safe distance reconnoitred the house with the purpose, quite as common in the country as in town, of not being among the earliest arrivals. So long did he watch without seeing even a single person or carriage approach the door that there came to him the horrible fear that perhaps for some reason the affair had been postponed. About nine o’clock, however, his gaze was rewarded by a single carriage; another followed shortly, and several others came in rapid succession: so a quarter of an hour later he made his own entry. On this occasion he was not unable to translate the instructions, as to the locality of the gentlemen’s dressing-room, imparted by the servant at the door; but, having reached the general receptacle of coats, hats, and sticks, he was greatly puzzled to know why a number of gentlemen were standing about doing nothing. By the time he learned that most of them were merely waiting for their respective feminine charges to descend with them, a clock in the room struck ten, and as Phil counted the strokes and remembered how often he had been half roused from his first doze beneath his bedclothes at home by just that number, he yawned by force of habit and half wished he never had left Haynton.

But suddenly drowsiness, melancholy, and everything else uncomfortable disappeared in an instant, and heaven—Phil’s own, newest heaven—enveloped the earth, for as he followed two or three bachelors who were going down-stairs he heard a well-known voice exclaiming,—

“Oh, Phil! Isn’t this nice? Just as if you’d been waiting for me! I haven’t any escort to-night, so you’ll have to take me down. Papa will drop in later, after he’s tired of the club.”

Oh, the music in the rustle of her dress as it trailed down the stair! Oh, the gold of her hair, the flush of her cheek, the expectancy in her eyes and her parted lips? And only twenty steps in which to have it all to himself! Would they had been twenty thousand!

At the foot of the stair Lucia took Phil’s arm, and together they saluted their hostess. Phil felt that he was being looked at by some one besides Miss Dinon, as indeed he was, for handsome young strangers are quite as rare in New York as anywhere else in the world. Nevertheless his consciousness was not allowed to make him uncomfortable, for between long-trained courtesy and intelligent admiration Miss Dinon was enabled to greet him so cordially that he was made to feel entirely at ease. Other guests came down in a moment, and Lucia led Phil away, presenting him to some of her acquaintances and keenly enjoying the surprise of those who recognized in him the awkward country-boy of a week before. Then one gentleman after another engaged Lucia in conversation, and begged dances; other ladies with whom he was chatting were similarly taken from him; and Phil finally found himself alone on a sofa, in a position from which he could closely observe the hostess.

Miss Agnes Dinon was very well worth looking at. Mrs. Tramlay may not have been far from right in fixing her years at thirty-six, but there were scores of girls who would gladly have accepted some of her years if they might have taken with them her superb physique and some of the tact and wit that her years had brought her. Gladly, too, would they have shared Miss Dinon’s superfluous age could they have divided with her the fortune she had in her own right. Nobody knew exactly how much it was, and fancies on the subject differed widely; but what did that matter? The leading and interesting fact was that it was large enough to have attracted a pleasing variety of suitors, so that there had not been a time since she “came out” when Miss Dinon might not have set her wedding-day had she liked. What detriment is there in age to a girl who can afford to choose instead of be chosen? Is not the full-blown rose more satisfactory, to many eyes, than the bud? And how much more charming the rose whose blushing petals lack not the glint of gold!

Phil had about reached the conclusion that Miss Dinon was a woman whom he believed it would do his mother good to look at, when his deliberations were brought to an end by the lady herself, who approached him and said,—

“At last I can take time to present you to some of my friends, Mr. Hayn. May I have your arm?”

Phil at once felt entirely at ease. It was merely a return of an old and familiar sensation, for he had always been highly esteemed by the more mature maidens of Haynton, and generally found them far more inspiring company than their younger sisters. Phil informed himself, in the intervals of introductions, that Miss Dinon was not like Lucia in a single particular, but she certainly was a magnificent creature. Her features, though rather large, were perfect, her eye was full of soul, especially when he looked down into it, as from his height he was obliged to, and the pose of her head, upon shoulders displayed according to the prevailing custom of evening dress, was simply superb. She found opportunities to chat a great deal, too, as they made the tour of the parlors, and all she said implied that her hearer was a man of sense, who did not require to be fed alternately upon the husks and froth of polite conversation. Phil’s wit was quite equal to that of his fair entertainer, and as her face reflected her feelings the guests began to be conscious that their hostess and the stranger made a remarkably fine-looking couple.

Impossible though he would have imagined it half an hour before, Phil’s thoughts had been entirely destitute of Lucia for a few moments; suddenly, however, they recovered her, for looking across the head of a little rosebud to whom he had just been introduced, Phil beheld Lucia looking at him with an expression that startled him. He never before had seen her look that way,—very sober, half blank, half angry. What could it mean? Could she be offended? But why? Was he not for the moment in charge of his hostess, who, according to Haynton custom, and probably custom everywhere else, had supreme right when she chose to exercise it?

Could it be—the thought came to him as suddenly as an unexpected blow—could it be that she was jealous of his attention to Miss Dinon, and of his probably apparent enjoyment of that lady’s society? Oh, horrible, delicious thought! Jealousy was not an unknown quality at Haynton: he had observed its development often and often. But to be jealous a girl must be very fond of a man, or at least desirous of his regard. Could it be that Lucia regarded him as he did her? Did she really esteem him as more than a mere acquaintance? If not, why that strange look?

If really jealous, Lucia soon had ample revenge, for music began, and Miss Dinon said,—

“Have you a partner for the quadrille, Mr. Hayn? If not, you must let me find you one.”

“I—no, I don’t dance,” he stammered.

“How unfortunate—for a dozen or more girls this evening!” murmured Miss Dinon. “You will kindly excuse me, that I may see if the sets are full?”

Phil bowed, and edged his way to a corner, where in solitude and wretchedness he beheld Lucia go through a quadrille, bestowing smiles in rapid succession upon her partner, who was to Phil’s eyes too utterly insignificant to deserve a single glance from those fairest eyes in the world. His lips hardened as he saw Lucia occasionally whirled to her place by the arm of her partner boldly encircling her waist. He had always thought dancing was wrong; now he knew it. At Haynton the young people occasionally went through a dance called “Sir Roger de Coverley,” but there was no hugging in that. And Lucia did not seem at all displeased by her partner’s familiarity,—confound it!

He had to unbend and forget his anger when the quadrille ended, for a pretty maiden to whom he had been introduced accosted him and said some cheerful nothings, fluttering suggestively a miniature fan on which were pencilled some engagements to dance. But soon the music of a waltz arose, and Phil’s eye flashed, to a degree that frightened the maiden before him, for directly in front of him, with a man’s arm permanently about her slender waist and her head almost pillowed on her partner’s shoulder, was Lucia. More dreadful still, she seemed not only to accept the situation, but to enjoy it; there was on her face a look of dreamy content that Phil remembered having seen when she swung in a hammock at Haynton. He remembered that then he had thought it angelic, but—then there was no arm about her waist.

The pretty maiden with the fan had looked to see what had affected the handsome young man so unpleasantly. “Oh,” she whispered, “he is dreadfully awkward. I positively shiver whenever he asks me for a dance.”

“Awkward, indeed!” exclaimed Phil. A very young man with a solemn countenance came over just then to remind the maiden with the fan that the next quadrille would be his: so she floated away, bestowing upon Phil a parting smile far too sweet to be utterly wasted, as it was.

“You seem unhappy, Mr. Hayn,” said Miss Dinon, rejoining Phil. “I really believe it’s because you don’t dance. Confess, now.”

“You ought to be a soothsayer, Miss Dinon, you are so shrewd at guessing,” said Phil, forcing a smile and then mentally rebuking himself for lying.

“Won’t you attempt at least a quadrille? The next one will be very easy.”

“Phil!” exclaimed Lucia, coming up to him with an odd, defiant look, part of which was given to Miss Dinon, “you’re too mean for anything. You haven’t asked me for a single dance.”

Phil’s smile was of the sweetest and cheeriest as he replied,—

“Wouldn’t it be meaner to ask for what I wouldn’t know how to accept? We country-people don’t know how to dance.”

“But any one can go through a quadrille: it’s as easy as walking.”

“You couldn’t have a better opportunity than the next dance, Mr. Hayn,” said Miss Dinon, “nor a more graceful partner and instructor than Miss Tramlay.”

Lucia looked grateful and penitent; then she took Phil’s arm, and whispered rapidly, “We’ll take a side: all you need do will be to watch the head couples carefully, and do exactly as they do, when our turn comes.”

“But if I blunder——”

“Then I’ll forgive you. What more can you ask?”

“Nothing,” said Phil, his heart warming, and his face reflecting the smile that accompanied Lucia’s promise. The quadrille was really as easy as had been promised: indeed, Phil found it almost identical, except in lack of grace, with an alleged calisthenic exercise which a pious teacher had once introduced in Haynton’s school. The motion of swinging a partner back to position by an encircling arm puzzled him somewhat, as he contemplated it, but Lucia kindly came to his assistance, and ’twas done almost before he knew it,—done altogether too quickly, in fact. And although he honestly endeavored to analyze the wickedness of it, and to feel horrified and remorseful, his mind utterly refused to obey him.

“There!” exclaimed Lucia, as the quadrille ended, and, leaning on Phil’s arm, she moved toward a seat. “You didn’t seem to find that difficult.”

“Anything would be easy, with you for a teacher,” Phil replied.

“Thanks,” said Lucia, with a pretty nod of her head.

“And I’m ever so much obliged to Miss Dinon for urging me to try,” continued Phil.

“Agnes Dinon is a dear old thing,” said Lucia, fanning herself vigorously.

“Old?” echoed Phil. “A woman like Miss Dinon can never be old.”

Lucia’s fan stopped suddenly; again the strange jealous look came into her face, and she said,—

“I should imagine you had been smitten by Miss Dinon.”

“Nonsense!” Phil exclaimed, with a laugh. “Can’t a man state a simple fact in natural history without being misunderstood?”

“Forgive me,” said Lucia, prettily. “I forgot that you were always interested in the deepest and most far-away side of everything. Here comes that stupid little Laybrough, who has my next waltz. I’m going to depend upon you to take me down to supper. By-by.”

A minute later, and Phil sobered again, for again Lucia was floating about the room with a man’s arm around her waist. Phil took refuge in philosophy, and wondered whether force of habit was sufficient to explain why a lot of modest girls, as all in Miss Dinon’s parlors undoubtedly were, could appear entirely at ease during so immodest a diversion. During the waltz he leaned against a door-casing: evidently some one was occupying a similar position on the other side, in the hall, for Phil distinctly heard a low voice saying,—

“Wouldn’t it be great if our charming hostess were to set her cap for that young fellow from the country?”

“Nonsense!” was the reply: “she’s too much the older to think of such a thing.”

“Not a bit of it. She’ll outlive any young girl in the room. Besides, where money calls, youth is never slow in responding.”

“They say he’s as good as engaged to Miss Tramlay,” said the first speaker.

“Indeed? Umph! Not a bad match. Has he got any money? I don’t believe Tramlay is more than holding his own.”

Phil felt his face flush as he moved away. He wanted to resent the remarks about his hostess, an implication that his friend Tramlay was other than rich, and, still more, that any young man could be led to the marriage-altar merely by money. If people were talking about him in such fashion he wished he might be out of sight. He would return at once to his hotel, had he not promised to take Lucia down to supper. He could at least hide himself, for a little while, in the gentlemen’s room up-stairs. Thither he went, hoping to be alone, but he found Marge, who had just come in, and who lost his self-possession for an instant when he recognized the well-dressed young man before him.

“Anybody here?” drawled Marge.

“Lucia is,—I mean Miss Tramlay,” said Phil, in absent-minded fashion,—“and lots of other people, of course.”

Marge looked curiously at Phil’s averted face, and went down-stairs. Phil remained long enough to find that his mind was in an utter muddle, and that apparently nothing would compose it but another glimpse of Lucia. As supper was served soon after he went down, his wish was speedily gratified. From that time forward his eye sought her continually, although he tried to speak again to every one to whom he had been introduced. How he envied Lucia’s father, who was to escort the little witch home! How he wished that in the city, as at Haynton, people walked home from parties, and stood a long time at the gate, when maid and man were pleasantly acquainted!

He saw Lucia go up-stairs when the company began leave-taking; he stood at the foot of the stair, that he might have one more glance at her. As she came down she was an entirely new picture, though none the less charming, in her wraps. And—oh, bliss!—she saw him, and said,—

“See me to the carriage, Phil, and then find papa for me.”

How tenderly he handed her down the carpeted stone steps! He had seen pictures of such scenes, and tried to conform his poses with those he recalled. He opened the carriage door. Lucia stepped in, but her train could not follow of its own volition, so Phil had the joy of lifting the rustling mass that had the honor of following the feet of divinity. Then he closed the carriage door regretfully, but a little hand kindly stole through the window as Lucia said,—

“Good-night. Don’t forget to send papa out.”

“I won’t,” said Phil. Then he looked back quickly: the door of the house was closed, so he raised the little hand to his lips and kissed it several times in rapid succession. True, the hand was gloved; but Phil’s imagination was not.