On this night the lights showed welcome from its many windows, open doors, and balconies, and from the coloured paper lanterns festooned upon its facade and strung aloft over its splendid lawn and gardens.  The house still stands, I hear, and is known as the Jumel Mansion, from the widow who lives there.  But I’ll warrant it presents no more such scenes as it offered that night, when the wealth and beauty of New York, the chivalry of the king’s army, arrived at its broad pillared entrance by horse and by coach in a constant procession.  In the great hall, and the adjacent rooms, the rays of countless candles fell upon brilliant uniforms, upon silk and velvet and brocade and broadcloth, upon powdered hair, and fans and furbelows, upon white necks and bosoms, and dazzling eyes, upon jewels and golden buckles and shining sword-hilts.

We that entered from the Faringfield coach were Mrs. Faringfield and my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Tom and myself.  We had just received the greeting of our handsome hostess, and were passing up the hall, when my eyes alighted upon the figure of an officer who stood alone, in an attitude of pensive negligence, beside the mantelpiece.  He was fully six feet tall, but possessed a carriage of grace and elegance, instead of the rigid erectness of so many of his comrades.  He had a slender, finely cut, English face, a long but delicate chin, gray eyes of a beautiful clearness, slightly wavy hair that was now powdered, and the hands and legs of a gentleman.

“What a handsome fellow!  Who is he?” whispered Margaret to Fanny.

I glanced at her.  Her eyes showed admiration—­an expression I had never before seen in them.  I looked back at the officer.  He in turn had seen her.  His face, from having worn a look half melancholy, half languid, had speedily become animated with interest.  ’Twas as if each of these two superb creatures had unexpectedly fallen upon something they had scarce hoped to find in their present environment.

“A mighty pretty gentleman, indeed,” said my mother.

“Nay,” said Margaret, with a swift relapse into indifference, “no such Adonis neither, on second view.”

But I saw that she turned the corner of her eye upon him at intervals as she moved forward, and that she was not sorry or annoyed to find that he kept his gaze boldly upon her all the while.  Presently he looked about him, and singled out an acquaintance, to whom he made his way.  Five minutes later he was being introduced, as Captain Falconer, to Mrs. Winwood.

“’Faith,” said he, in a courteous, subdued voice, after bowing very low, “I did not think to find a lady so recently from St. James’, in this place.  One might swear, looking at you, madam, that this was Almack’s.”

“Sir, you speak to one that never saw St. James’ but in imagination,” said Margaret, coolly.  “Sure one can be white, and moderately civil, and yet be of New York.”

“The deuce, madam!  A native?  You?”