“Good evening, Mr. Lenox,” she said.  “I am very glad to see you,” and hardly waiting for his response, she turned and walked away.

“That is Juliet all over,” said her sister.  “You would not think to see her ordinarily that she was given to that sort of thing, but once in a while, when she feels like it—­well—­pranks!  She is the funniest creature that ever lived, I believe, and can mimic and imitate any mortal creature.  She sat in the carriage this morning, and one might have fancied from her expression that she hardly heard a word, but I haven’t a doubt that she could repeat every syllable that was uttered.  Oh, here come the Bensons and their musicians.”

John stepped back a pace or two toward the end of the room, but was presently recalled and presented to the newcomers.  After a little talk the Bensons settled themselves in the corner at the lower end of the room, where seats were placed for the two musicians, and our friend took a seat near where he had been standing.  The violinist adjusted his folding music rest.  Miss Clara stepped over to the entrance door and put up her finger at the young people in the hall.  “After the music begins,” she said, with a shake of the head, “if I hear one sound of giggling or chattering, I will send every one of you young heathen home.  Remember now!  This isn’t your party at all.”

“But, Clara, dear,” said Sue Tenaker (aged fifteen), “if we are very good and quiet do you think they would play for us to dance a little by and by?”

“Impudence!” exclaimed Miss Clara, giving the girl’s cheek a playful slap and going back to her place.  Miss Verjoos came in and took a chair by her sister.  Mrs. Benson leaned forward and raised her eyebrows at Miss Clara, who took a quick survey of the room and nodded in return.  Herr Schlitz seated himself on the piano chair, pushed it a little back, drew it a little forward to the original place, looked under the piano at the pedals, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands, and after arpeggioing up and down the key-board, swung into a waltz of Chopin’s (Opus 34, Number 1), a favorite of our friend’s, and which he would have thoroughly enjoyed—­for it was splendidly played—­if he had not been uneasily apprehensive that he might be asked to sing after it.  And while on some accounts he would have been glad of the opportunity to “have it over,” he felt a cowardly sense of relief when the violinist came forward for the next number.  There had been enthusiastic applause at the north end of the room, and more or less clapping of hands at the south end, but not enough to impel the pianist to supplement his performance at the time.  The violin number was so well received that Mr. Fairman added a little minuet of Boccherini’s without accompaniment, and then John felt that his time had surely come.  But he had to sit, drawing long breaths, through a Liszt fantasie on themes from Faust before his suspense was ended by Miss Clara, who was apparently mistress of ceremonies and who said to him, “Will you sing now, Mr. Lenox?”