From his apartment it was but a few steps to the Casino.  He walked there without injury to his pumps, bought his ticket at the office, half fearing that it would be refused him, and sauntered across the lawn to the inner door of the ballroom.  The horseshoe was brilliantly lighted, and, with its airy architecture, looked as if awaiting a revel of the fairies.  The cottagers, Andrew understood, would alight at an outside door.  They were subscribers, and the office was not for them.

He went up to the gallery to await his friend.  It was less than a fourth occupied by pretty girls—­“natives,” he recognized at once.  Some wore hats, others were in local substitute for full dress—­a muslin or Indian silk turned away at the throat, a flower in the hair.  He took a chair before the railing.  The one beside him was occupied by a handsome dark-eyed girl who had made a brave attempt to be smart.  She wore a red silk frock and a red rose in her rough abundant hair.  Round her white throat she had gracefully arranged some silk lace.  Andrew paid that tribute to her charms of one whose eyes have been too long accustomed to great works of art to take any interest in the chromo.  Nevertheless, he was young and she was young.  They flirted mildly until Chapman came in and introduced them.

“Miss Leslie is an old friend of mine, Webb,” he said in his hearty way.  “I hope you will be friends too.”

Miss Leslie bowed and beamed and flashed her pretty teeth.  Andrew made some vague remark, wondering at the spite of fate, then forgot her utterly.  Chapman had whispered to him that the cottagers were coming.

He leaned eagerly over the rail.  A number of buxom dames, accompanied by slender girls, were filing in.  Some of the old women were in white satin, with many jewels on their platitudinous bosoms.  The slim sisterhood, with their deerlike movements, their curried hair arranged to simulate a walnut on the crown of their little heads, their tiny waists and white necks and arms, riveted Andrew’s gaze as ever.  Some looked like Easter lilies in their pure white gowns, others like delicate orchids.  One beautiful young woman, evidently a matron, wore a gown of black gauze, with a row of sparkling crescents, stars, and clusters, about the low line of the corsage.

“Isn’t she lovely?” whispered Miss Leslie. “She got a French Duke.  But she deserved her luck.  She’s sweet.”

All were very decolletee.

“Reminds one of the days when slaves were put up on sale at the mart, not far from this very spot,” murmured Chapman.

One sprightly matron entered with an imperious air, and was immediately surrounded.

“Who’s she?” inquired Andrew, scornfully.  “Why, her frock and gloves are soiled, and her hair’s dyed.”

“Oh, she’s out of sight, my boy!  Once in a while they do look like that.  She’s going to lead things this summer.  Wish she’d hurry up!” Then he named a number of people to Webb.