“Miss Grace?”

“Well, Mr. Newt.”

“You observe the engraving of the Madonna?”

“Yes.”

“You see the two cherubs below looking up?”

“Yes.”

“You see the serene sweetness of their faces?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Grace Plumer looks as if curiously speculating.  Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing every word, although he pares a peach and offers it to Miss Magot.

“Miss Grace, do you remember what I said once of honest admiration—­that if it were eloquent it would be irresistible?”

Grace Plumer bows an assent.

“But that its mere consciousness—­a sort of silent eloquence—­is pure happiness to him who feels it?”

She thinks she remembers that too, although the Prince apparently forgets that he never said it to her before.

“Well, Miss Plumer, it seems to me the serene sweetness of that picture is the expression of the perfect happiness of entire admiration—­that is to say, of love; whoever loves is like those cherubs—­perfectly happy.”

He looks attentively at the picture, as if he had forgotten his own existence in the happiness of the cherubs.  Grace Plumer glances at him for a few moments with a peculiar expression.  It is full of admiration, but it is not the look with which she would say, as she just now said to Sligo Moultrie, “You always speak sincerely.”

She is still looking at the Prince, when Mr. Moultrie begins again: 

“I ought to be allowed to explain that I only meant that as a cage is a home, so it is often used as a snare.  Do you know, Miss Grace, that the prettiest birds are often put into the prettiest cages to entice other birds?  By-the-by, how lovely Laura Magot is this evening!”

He cuts a small piece of the peach with his silver knife and puts it into his mouth,

“Peaches are luxuries in June,” he says, quietly.

This time it is at Sligo Moultrie that Miss Grace Plumer looks fixedly.

“What kind of birds, Mr. Moultrie?” she says, at length.

“Miss Grace, do you know the story of the old Prince of Este?” answers he, as he lays a bunch of grapes upon her plate.  She pulls one carelessly and lets it drop again.  He takes it and puts it in his mouth.

“No; what is the story?”

“There was an old Prince of Este who had a beautiful villa and a beautiful sister, and nothing else in the world but a fiery eye and an eloquent tongue.”

Sligo Moultrie flushes a little, and drinks a glass of wine.  Grace Plumer is a little paler, and more serious.  Prince Abel plies Madame Plumer with fruit and compliments, and hears every word.

“Well.”

“Well, Miss Grace, she was so beautiful that many a lady became her friend, and many of those friends sighed for the brother’s fiery eyes and blushed as they heard his honeyed tongue.  But he was looking for a queen.  At length came the Princess of Sheba—­”