“Her stay there was very short,” answered Mrs. Fitzgerald.  “Her manners were said to be unexceptionable.  The gentlemen were quite vexed because she made herself so inaccessible.”

The conversation was interrupted by La Campaneo’s voice, singing, “Ah, bello a me ritorno.”  The orchestra hushed at once, and the dancing was suspended, while the company gathered round the piano, curious to hear the remarkable singer.  Mrs. Fitzgerald had long ceased to allude to what was once her favorite topic,—­the wonderful resemblance between La Senorita’s voice and a mysterious voice she had once heard on her husband’s plantation.  But she grew somewhat pale as she listened; for the tones recalled that adventure in her bridal home at Magnolia Lawn, and the fair moonlight vision was followed by dismal spectres of succeeding years.  Ah, if all the secret histories and sad memories assembled in a ball-room should be at once revealed, what a judgment night it would be!

Mrs. King had politely complied with the request to sing, because she was aware that her host and the company would be disappointed if she refused; but it was known only to her own soul how much the effort cost her.  She bowed rather languidly to the profuse compliments which followed-her performance, and used her fan as if she felt oppressed.

“Fall back!” said one of the gentlemen, in a low voice.  “There is too great a crowd round her.”

The hint was immediately obeyed, and a servant was requested to bring iced lemonade.  She soon breathed more freely, and tried to rally her spirits to talk with Mr. Green and others concerning European reminiscences.  Mrs. Fitzgerald drew near, and signified to her cousin a wish to be introduced; for it would have mortified her vanity, when she afterward retailed the gossip of the ball-room, if she had been obliged to acknowledge that she was not presented to la belle lionne.

“If you are not too much fatigued,” said she, “I hope you will allow my son to sing a duet with you.  He would esteem it such an honor!  I assure you he has a fine voice, and he is thought to sing with great expression, especially ‘M’odi!  Ah, m’odi!’”

The young gentleman modestly disclaimed the compliment to his musical powers, but eagerly urged his mother’s request.  As he bent near the cantatrice, waiting for her reply, her watchful husband again noticed a quick flush suffusing her face, succeeded by deadly pallor.  Gently moving young Fitzgerald aside, he said in a low tone, “Are you not well, my dear?”

She raised her eyes to his with a look of distress, and replied:  “No, I am not well.  Please order the carriage.”

He took her arm within his, and as they made their way through the crowd she bowed gracefully to the right and left, in answer to the lamentations occasioned by her departure.  Young Fitzgerald followed to the hall door to offer, in the name of Mrs. Green, a beautiful bouquet, enclosed within an arum lily of silver filigree.  She bowed her thanks, and, drawing from it a delicate tea-rose, presented it to him.  He wore it as a trophy the remainder of the evening; and none of the young ladies who teased him for it succeeded in obtaining it.