The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from mamma excused her absence—­papa somewhat indisposed, and so forth; and Mr. Abel himself so sorry—­but Mrs. Plumer knows what these husbands are!  Meanwhile the ladies have thrown off their shawls.

The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served.  Prince Abel, with royal grace, presides.  By every lady’s plate a pretty bouquet; the handsomest of all not by Miss, but by Mrs. Plumer.  Flowers are every where.  It is Grand Street, indeed, in the city; but the garden at Pinewood, perhaps, does not smell more sweetly.

“There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the very breath of our Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover does not grow in the city, Miss Grace.”

Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his voice and face turn toward the daughter as it ends.

Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of many-colored materials and of various shapes upon tables about the room.  The last new books, in English editions often, and a few solid classics, are in sight.  Pictures also.

“What a lovely Madonna!” says Miss Plumer, as she raises her eyes to a beautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite upon the wall; which, indeed, was intended to be observed by her.

“Yes.  It is the Sistine, you know,” says the Prince, as he sees that the waiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer.

The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving which usually hangs there.  Usually it is a pretty-colored French print representing “Lucille,” a young woman who has apparently very recently issued from the bath.  Indeed there is a very choice collection of French prints which the young men sometimes study over their cigars, but which are this evening in the port-folio, which is not in sight.

The waiters move very softly.  The wants of the guests are revealed to them by being supplied.  Quiet, elegance, luxury prevail.

“Really, Mr. Newt”—­it is Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans, who speaks—­“you have created Paris in Grand Street!”

“Ah! madame, it is you who graciously bring Versailles and the Tuileries with you!”

He speaks to the mother; he looks, as he ends, again at the daughter.

The daughter for the first time is in the sanctuary of a bachelor—­of a young man about town.  It is a character which always interests her—­which half fascinates her.  Miss Plumer, of New Orleans, has read more French literature of the lighter sort—­novels and romances, for instance—­than most of the young women whom Abel Newt meets in society.  Her eyes are very shrewd, and she is looking every where to see if she shall not light upon some token of bachelor habits—­something that shall reveal the man who occupies those pretty rooms.