“He gives them to you?  Adopts and makes you his heiress?  How very good and kind of him, and I am so glad to hear it.”

“He offers to many me, you stupid dove!”

“Not that Mr. Congreve who dined here last week, and who is so deaf?”

“That same veritable Midas.  You must know he is not deaf from age; oh no!  Scarlet fever when he was teething.”

“You do not intend to marry him?”

“Why not?  Do you suppose I have gone crazy, and lost the power of computing rents and dividends?  Are people ever so utterly mad as that?  If I were capable of hesitating a moment, I should deserve a strait-jacket for the remainder of my darkened days.  Why, I am reliably informed that his property is unencumbered, and worth at least two millions three hundred thousand dollars!  I think even dear mamma, who mother-like overrates my charms, never in her rosiest visions dreamed I could command such a high price.  The slave trade is looking up once more; threatens to grow brisk, in spite of Congressional prohibition.”

She sat quite erect, with her hands clasped across the back of her head; a crimson spot burning on each cheek, and an unnatural lustre in her laughing eyes.

“Olga, do you love him?”

“Now I am sure you are the identical white pigeon that Noah let out of the ark; for nothing less antediluvian could ask such obsolete, such utterly dead and buried questions!  I love dearly and sincerely rich laces, old wines, fine glass, heavy silver, blooded horses fast and fiery, large solitaires, rare camei; and all these comfortable nice little things I shall truly honour, and tenaciously cling to, ‘until death us do part,’ and as Mrs. Silas Congreve—­hush!  Here comes mamma.”

“Olga, why are you not up and dressed?  You accepted the invitation to ‘lunch’ with Mrs. St. Clare, and what excuse can I possibly frame?”

“I have implicit faith in your ingenuity, and give you carte blanche in the manufacture of an apology.”

“And my conscience, Olga?”

“Oh dear!  Has it waked up again?  I thought you had chloroformed it, as you did the last spell of toothache a year ago.  I hope it is not a severe attack this time?”

She took her mother’s hand, and kissed it lightly.

“My daughter, are you really sick?”

“Very, mamma; such fits of palpitation.”

“I never saw you look better.  I shall tell no stories for you to Mrs. St. Clare.”

“Cruel mamma! when you know how my tender maidenly sensibilities are just now lacerated by the signal success of such patient manoeuvring!  Tell Mrs. St. Clare that like the man in the Bible who could not attend the supper, because he had married a wife, I stayed at home to ponder my brilliant prospects as Madame Silas——­”

“Olga!” exclaimed Mrs. Palma, with a warning gesture toward Regina.

“Do you think I could hide my bliss from her?  She knows the honour proffered me, and has promised to keep the secret.”