“A Bacchus, realistically treated!  My dear young friend, never trifle with your lofty mission.  Spotless marble should represent virtue, not vice!” And Mr. Leavenworth placidly waved his hand, as if to exorcise the spirit of levity, while his glance journeyed with leisurely benignity to another object—­a marble replica of the bust of Miss Light.  “An ideal head, I presume,” he went on; “a fanciful representation of one of the pagan goddesses—­a Diana, a Flora, a naiad or dryad?  I often regret that our American artists should not boldly cast off that extinct nomenclature.”

“She is neither a naiad nor a dryad,” said Roderick, “and her name is as good as yours or mine.”

“You call her”—­Mr. Leavenworth blandly inquired.

“Miss Light,” Rowland interposed, in charity.

“Ah, our great American beauty!  Not a pagan goddess—­an American, Christian lady!  Yes, I have had the pleasure of conversing with Miss Light.  Her conversational powers are not remarkable, but her beauty is of a high order.  I observed her the other evening at a large party, where some of the proudest members of the European aristocracy were present—­duchesses, princesses, countesses, and others distinguished by similar titles.  But for beauty, grace, and elegance my fair countrywoman left them all nowhere.  What women can compare with a truly refined American lady?  The duchesses the other night had no attractions for my eyes; they looked coarse and sensual!  It seemed to me that the tyranny of class distinctions must indeed be terrible when such countenances could inspire admiration.  You see more beautiful girls in an hour on Broadway than in the whole tour of Europe.  Miss Light, now, on Broadway, would excite no particular remark.”

“She has never been there!” cried Roderick, triumphantly.

“I ’m afraid she never will be there.  I suppose you have heard the news about her.”

“What news?” Roderick had stood with his back turned, fiercely poking at his lazzarone; but at Mr. Leavenworth’s last words he faced quickly about.

“It ’s the news of the hour, I believe.  Miss Light is admired by the highest people here.  They tacitly recognize her superiority.  She has had offers of marriage from various great lords.  I was extremely happy to learn this circumstance, and to know that they all had been left sighing.  She has not been dazzled by their titles and their gilded coronets.  She has judged them simply as men, and found them wanting.  One of them, however, a young Neapolitan prince, I believe, has after a long probation succeeded in making himself acceptable.  Miss Light has at last said yes, and the engagement has just been announced.  I am not generally a retailer of gossip of this description, but the fact was alluded to an hour ago by a lady with whom I was conversing, and here, in Europe, these conversational trifles usurp the lion’s share of one’s attention.  I therefore retained the circumstance.