and finally, out of breath, badly frightened, reach my room.  What a relief!  I turn on the light—­two, three, yes, four burners, and wish for more.  I stir up the fire into a blaze; look over my left shoulder, but see nothing; listen, but hear nothing.  I wheel my dressing-table near by; seat myself before the pretty oval mirror.  I tear off those ugly blossoms, sent by that stupid man for me to wear; I look long and earnestly at the tired face I see reflected in the pretty oval mirror, with its beveled edges and dainty drapery of pink silk and pure white mull.  It is not a pretty face; even my friends do not think me beautiful.  Yet I sometimes fancy—­alas! perhaps it is only a fancy—­that I have on my face a suggestion of beauty, even if beauty itself be absent.  My eyes are full and dark, with long lashes; my mouth is somewhat large, not a good shape either, and some people—­who do not like me—­say that they can easily detect a hard, cold expression which does not please them.  But my profile is good in spite of my ill-featured mouth, and there is—­generally acknowledged—­a certain high-born, well-bred look about the poise of my shapely head which gains for me more than a mere passing notice.  My manners are pronounced “charming,” and by many—­those who like me—­charmingly faultless.  So, after all, in spite of this lack of a positive style of beauty, I am what might be termed a “social success.”  But it is a social success which I have slowly gained, with much labor, and its duration is somewhat uncertain.  I am just beginning to be sure of myself, although this is my fourth winter out.  True, I have almost always had an escort to every thing given, but I have never been able to fully assert myself.  Now, wherever I go, I boldly, and without fear, seek out some comfortable place in some one room, at reception, party, or ball, and rest assured that all of my now-many friends and half dozen or more lovers will seek me out, and having found me, will linger about me the entire evening; and if I like, I need not even move from that one pleasant place during the entertainment, but have my supper brought to me and the two or three other girls who make up our set, for you know it is so disagreeable to crowd into the supper-room; it is a vulgar eagerness, that carries with it a low-born air of actual hunger, and it is so vulgar to be hungry; and our set is so well-born and so well-reared.  But, O, my! my hair’s all in a tangle; comes of trying to do it up in a Langtry-knot.  I don’t think it is a nice way to fix hair, anyhow.  I like to pile mine on the top of my head.  Don’t much care if people like it or not.  And yet—­well, yes, I believe I do care a little bit.  I suppose I’ll have to take it down myself to-night, and not call the maid, because she’s very tired, and when she’s tired she’s cross; I hate cross people.  But I ought not to blame her, because I’ve been out four nights this week, and the musicale is to-morrow evening.  The musicales are always so nice—­for