and ready with all sorts of pleasant phrases.  It is not often that one sees such a manly, robust figure, such a handsome, ingenuous face, and such an air of agreeable repose.  Easelmann was present, retiring as usual, but with an acute eye that lost nothing while it seemed to be observing nothing.  Greenleaf was decidedly the lion.  It was not merely his graceful person and regular features that drew admiring glances upon him; the charm lay rather in an atmosphere of intellect that surrounded him.  His conversation, though by no means faultless, was marked by an energy of phrase joined to an almost womanly delicacy and taste.  His was the “hand of steel,” but clothed with the “glove of velvet.”  Easelmann followed him with a look half stealthy, half comical, as he saw the unusual vivacity of the reigning beauty when in his immediate society.  Her voice took instinctively a softer and more musical tone; she showered her glances upon him, dazzling and prismatic as the rays from her diamonds; she seemed determined to captivate him without the tedious process of a siege.  And, in truth, he must have been an unimpressible man that could steel himself against the influence of a woman who satisfied every critical sense, who piqued all his pride, who stimulated all that was most manly in his nature, and without apparent effort filled his bosom with an exquisite intoxication.

The music commenced under Marcia’s direction.  There were piano solos that were not tedious,—­full of melody and feeling, and with few of the pyrotechnical displays which are too common in modern virtuoso-playing; vocal duets and quartets from the Italian operas, and from Orfeo and other German masterpieces; and solos, if not equal to the efforts of professional singers, highly creditable to amateurs, to say the least.  The auditors were enthusiastic in praise.  Even Charles, who came in late, declared the music “Vewy good, upon my soul,—­surpwizingly good!”

Greenleaf was listening to Marcia, with a pleased smile on his face, when Mr. Sandford approached and interrupted them.

“You are proficient in more than one art, I see.  You paint as well as though you knew nothing of music, and yet you sing like a man who has made it an exclusive study.”

Greenleaf simply bowed.

“How do you come on with the picture?” Mr. Sandford continued.

“Very well, I believe.”

“My dear Sir, make haste and finish it.”

“I thought you were not in a hurry.”

“Not in the least, my friend; but when you get that finished, you can paint others, which I can probably dispose of for you.”

“You are very kind.”

“I speak as a business man,” said Sandford, in a lower tone, at which Marcia withdrew.  “The arts fare badly in time of a money panic, and all the pictures you can sell now will be clear gain.”

“Are there signs of a panic?”

“Decidedly; the rates of interest are advancing daily, and no one knows where it will end.  Unless there is some relief in the market by Western remittances, the distress will be wide-spread and severe.”