Whether it was the “tone of society” which pervaded my “Florentine letters,” or my noted description of the boudoir of Egeria Mentale, I could not just now determine; but these, and other humble efforts of mine, made me known in palaces as a painter of beauty and magnificence; and I have been in demand, to do for wealth what wealth cannot do for itself,—­ namely, make it live a little, or, at least, spread as far, in fame, as the rings of a stone-plash on a great pond.

I enjoy friendships and regards which would satisfy the most fastidious.  Are not the Denslows enormously rich?  Is not Dalton a sovereign of elegance?  It was I who gave the fame of these qualities to the world, in true colors, not flattered.  And they know it, and love me.  Honoria Denslow is the most beautiful and truly charming woman of society.  It was I who first said it; and she is my friend, and loves me.  I defy poverty; the wealth of all the senses is mine, without effort.  I desire not to be one of those who mingle as principals and sufferers; for they are less causes than effects.  As the Florentine in the Inferno saw the souls of unfortunate lovers borne upon a whirlwind, so have I seen all things fair and precious,—­outpourings of wealth,—­all the talents,—­all the offerings of duty and devotion,—­angelic graces of person and of soul,—­borne and swept violently around on the circular gale.  Wealth is only an enlargement of the material boundary, and leaves the spirit free to dash to and fro, and exhaust itself in vain efforts.—­But I am philosophizing,—­oddly enough,—­when I should describe.

An exquisite little note from Honoria, sent at the last moment, asking me to be present that evening at a “select” party, which was to open the “new house,”—­the little palace of the Denslows,—­lay beside me on the table.  It was within thirty minutes of nine o’clock, the hour I had fixed for going.  A howling winter out of doors, a clear fire glowing in my little grate.  My arm-chair, a magnificent present from Honoria, shaming the wooden fixtures of the poor room, invited to meditation, and perhaps the composition of some delicate periods.  They formed slowly.  Time, it is said, devours all things; but imagination, in turn, devours time,—­and, indeed, swallowed my half-hour at a gulp.  The neighboring church-clock tolled nine.  I was belated, and hurried away.

It was a reunion of only three hundred invitations, selected by my friend Dalton, the intimate and adviser of Honoria.  So happy were their combinations, scarce a dozen were absent or declined.

At eleven, the guests began to assemble.  Introductions were almost needless.  Each person was a recognized member of “society.”  One-half of the number were women,—­many of them young, beautiful, accomplished,—­ heiresses, “charming widows,” poetesses of real celebrity, and, rarer still, of good repute,—­wives of millionnaires, flashing in satin and diamonds.  The men, on their side, were of all professions and arts, and of every grade of celebrity, from senator to merchant,—­each distinguished by some personal attribute or talent; and in all was the gift, so rare, of manners and conversation.  It was a company of undoubted gentlemen, as truly entitled to respect and admiration as if they stood about a throne.  They were the untitled nobility of Nature, wealth, and genius.