“You do not compliment the South very much,” said Sligo Moultrie, smiling.

“Oh no!  The South is home, and we don’t compliment relations, you know,” returned Miss Grace.

“Yes, thank Heaven! the South is home, Miss Grace.  New York is like a foreign city.  The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all.  It has no metropolitan repose.  It never can have.  It is a trading town.”

“Then I like trading towns, if that is it,” returned Miss Grace, looking out into the bustling street.

Mr. Moultrie smiled—­a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished smile.

He smiled confidently.  Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner—­a languid repose which pervaded his whole character.  The symmetry of his person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome face, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating.  He was not audacious nor brilliant.  It was a passive, not an active nature.  He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Southern youth was ex-officio a Croesus.  Scion of a fine old family, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo Moultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain his state.

Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s, had bright black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearly teeth.  Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, who believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was very shrewd and very kindly also.

Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with Grace Plumer.

“The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?” said he.

“Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they’re having of it.  Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here; but it is a little lonely, isn’t it, Mr. Moultrie?”

Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch interrogatory at her companion.

“Yes, it is lonely in some ways.  But then there is so much going up to town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we are at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal—­he ought not to be a vagabond.”

“Thank you,” said Grace, bowing mockingly.

“I said ‘a man,’ you observe, Miss Grace.”

“Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie.”

“In two cases—­yes.”

“What are they?”

“When he holds her in his arms or in his heart.”

Here was a sudden volley masked in music.  Grace Plumer was charmed.  She looked at her companion.  He had been “a vagabond” all winter in New York; but there were few more presentable men.  Moreover, she felt at home with him as a compatriot.  Yes, this would do very well.