“Be sure not,” said Adelaide on the stairs.  “That dress makes your hair too yellow.”

I heard loud laughing in the third story, and heavy steps, while I was in my room; and when I went down, I saw two gentlemen in evening dress, standing by Desmond, at the piano, and singing, “Fill, fill the sparkling brimmer.”  They were, as Ann informed me, college friends of Des, who had arrived for a few days’ visit, she supposed; disagreeable persons, of course.  They were often in Belem to ride, fish, or play billiards.  “Pa hates them,” she said in conclusion.  Mr. Somers entering at this moment, in his diplomatique style, his gouty white hands shaded with wristbands, and his throat tied with a white cravat, appeared to contradict her assertion, he was so affable in his salutations to the young men.  Desmond turned from the piano when he heard his father’s voice, and caught sight of me.  He started toward me; but his attention was claimed by one of the gentlemen, who had been giving me a prolonged stare, and he dropped back on his seat, with an indifferent air, answering some question relating to myself.  He looked as when I first saw him—­flushed, haughty, and bored.  His hair and dress were disordered, his boots splashed with mud; and it was evident that he did not intend to appear at the party.

Adelaide called me to remain by her; but I slipped away when I thought no more would arrive, and sought a retired corner, to which Mr. Somers brought Desmond’s friends, introducing them as the sons of his college chums, and leaving them, one lolling against the mantel, the other over the back of a chair.  They were muzzy with drink, and seemed to grow warm, as I looked from one to the other, with an attentive air.

“You are visiting in Belem,” said one.

“That is true,” I replied.

“It is too confoundedly aristocratic for me; it knocks Beacon Street into nothingness.”

“Where is Beacon Street?”

“Don’t you know that?  Nor the Mall?”

“No.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Ben, whom I had not seen since the day before.  He had been out of town, transacting some business for his father.  We looked at each other without speaking, but divined each other’s thoughts.  “You are as true and noble as I think you are, Cassy.  I must have it so.  You shall not thwart me.”  “Faithful and good Ben,—­do you pass a sufficiently strict examination upon yourself?  Are you not disposed to carry through your own ideas without considering me?” Whatever our internal comments were, we smiled upon each other with the sincerity of friendship, and I detected Mr. Digby in the act of elevating his eyebrows at Mr. Devereaux, who signified his opinion by telegraphing back:  “It is all over with them.”

“Hey, Somers,” said the first; “what are you doing nowadays?”

“Pretty much the same work that I always have on hand.”