elegant apparel for Sundays and parties, he would forswear the butcher’s wagon for months at a time.  Once in a while he would smoke an Havana cigar from the assortment to be found at the grocery-store on the corner, and sometimes, when a national holiday or the gloom of unrequited love rendered strong measures a necessity, he would become recklessly convivial over muddy whisky-and-water amid the spittoons and colored prints of the hotel bar-room.

On the present evening he arrived late, and came upon Cornelia and Bressant just as the latter was proposing to obtain the professor’s consent to accompanying her home on foot.

Mr. Reynolds advanced, smiling; a polka was being played at the moment, and he playfully contorted his figure and balanced his head from side to side in time with the tune, while with his right forefinger he beckoned winningly to Miss Valeyon to join him in the dance.  Bressant gave an involuntary shudder of disgust; it seemed to him a grisly caricature of the inspiration he himself had felt at the beginning of the evening.  But Cornelia was equal to the emergency.

“If you’ll go and ask papa now,” said she, “I’ll take care of this person meantime.  He’s known me so long, I don’t want to be impolite to him.”

A good deal of harm may be done in this world by what is called a reluctance to be uncivil.  There is generally more selfishness than consideration about it.  All sincere admiration, no matter from how low a source, is grateful to us.  Cornelia knew that Bill Reynolds worshipped her with his whole small capacity, and she was unwilling to deny herself the miserable little incense, and give him plainly to understand that, though it was not distasteful to her, he was.  And who could blame her for not wanting to hurt his feelings?

Bressant had no such delicate scruples, and would gladly have assisted poor Bill through the open bow-window.  He departed on his errand, however, with nothing more than a look of intense dissatisfaction, which was entirely lost upon the infatuated Reynolds.

“How lovely you do look to-night, Miss Valeyon!  I almost think sometimes it ain’t fair anybody should look as lovely as you do.  Elegant music they’ve got to-night, ain’t it?  Come, now—­just one turn.  What?”

Cornelia actually had danced with this young gentleman on one or two memorable occasions in the past, but was scarcely in the mood to do so this evening.  As she looked at him, now, she wondered how she ever had.  What a difference there is in men I and even more in the way we regard them at different times.  Bressant, simply by being himself, had annihilated all such small claims to social life as Bill Reynolds ever possessed.

“I’m not dancing to-night, thank you,” said Cornelia; but she smiled so as wellnigh to heal the wound her words inflicted.  “What makes you so late?”