“Allow me, Miss Grace,” says Abel.

The latter address sounds to her a little too free.  She feels, perhaps, that he has no rights of intimacy—­at least not yet—­or what does she feel?  But she gives her hand to Sligo Moultrie, and Abel bows.

“Thank you for a delightful evening, Mr. Newt.  Good-night!”

The host bows again, bareheaded, in the moonlight.

“By-the-by, Mr. Moultrie,” says the ringing voice of the clear-eyed girl, who remembers that Abel is listening, but who is sure that only Sligo can understand, “I ought to have told you that the story ended differently.  The Princess left the villa.  Good-night! good-night!”

The carriage rattles down the street.

“Good-night, Newt; a very beautiful and pleasant party.”

“Good-night, Moultrie—­thank you; and pleasant dreams.”

The young Georgian skips up the street, thinking only of Grace Plumer’s last words.  Abel Newt stands at his door for a moment, remembering them also, and perfectly understanding them.  The next instant he is shawling and cloaking the other ladies, who follow the Plumers; among them Mrs. Dagon, who says, softly,

“Good-night, Abel.  I like it all very well.  A very proper girl!  Such a complexion! and such teeth!  Such lovely little hands, too!  It’s all very right.  Go on, my dear.  What a dreadful piece of work Fanny’s made of it!  I wonder you don’t like Hope Wayne.  Think of it, a million of dollars!  However, it’s all one, I suppose—­Grace or Hope are equally pleasant.  Good-night, naughty boy!  Behave yourself.  As for your father, I’m afraid to go to the house lest he should bite me.  He’s dangerous.  Good-night, dear!”

Yes, Abel remembers with singular distinctness that it was a word, only one word, just a year ago to Grace Plumer—­a word intended only to deceive that foolish Fanny—­which had cost him—­at least, he thinks so—­Hope Wayne.

He bows his last guests out at the door with more sweetness in his face than in his soul.  Returning to the room he looks round upon the ruins of the feast, and drinks copiously of the wine that still remains.  Not at all inclined to sleep, he goes into his bedroom and finds a cigar.  Returning, he makes a few turns in the room while he smokes, and stops constantly to drink another glass.  He half mutters to himself, as he addresses the chair in which Grace Plumer has been sitting,

“Are you or I going to pay for this feast, Madame?  Somebody has got to do it.  Young woman, Moultrie was right, and you are wrong.  She did become Princess of Este.  I’ll pay now, and you’ll pay by-and-by.  Yes, my dear Grace, you’ll pay by-and-by.”

He says these last words very slowly, with his teeth set, the head a little crouched between the shoulders, and a stealthy, sullen, ugly glare in the eyes.

“I’ve got to pay now, and you shall pay by-and-by.  Yes, Miss Grace Plumer; you shall pay for to-night and for the evening in my mother’s conservatory.”