“Why, Mrs. Brown,” drawled a voice which had before been silent, “your husband made his money in a vulgar grocery; your father was a poor man, while your fair neighbor inherited her vast wealth.  That splendid mansion was a gift from papa, those well-trained servants have been in the service of her family since my lady was a mere child, and have been accustomed to wait upon and obey the slightest wish of their imperious mistress, until they have grown to regard her as of a higher order of being from themselves—­a sort of delicate porcelain, while they are only common crockery for kitchen service.  All perfectly proper, you know!”

The last speaker was a languid blonde, with a profusion of airy ringlets fluttering around her thin face, which, judging by appearances, must have been fanned by the zephyrs of innumerable May-days, equally as bright and beautiful as the one that on the present occasion had aroused her to the unwonted exertion of dressing and appearing in the parlor of her dearest friend, to display a new, tasteful spring suit, of a delicate blue, suitable to the complexion of the lady it adorned.

A self-complacent smile curled her thin lips, as she quietly noted the effects of her somewhat lengthy speech.  Like all efforts of an unexpected and startling nature it produced a decided sensation.  The little lady in brocade and diamonds glared at her like a fury—­her stately hostess bridled, tossed her head, and gave one or two short, sharp, hysterical giggles.

“Why, Cynthia,” she exclaimed, “you are in charming spirits!  Mr. Underwitte must have proposed at last.”

Miss Cynthia playfully held up her parasol to conceal her blushes.

“As if I were going to tell if he did!  Now, really, Mrs. Brown, what would you say to having me for a neighbor at some not distant day in the place of those insufferable Graystones?  Do you think I could do the honors of the mansion gracefully, or should I suffer from the comparison with the fair descendant of the Leveridges?  By the way, do you think she will continue to pride herself upon her lofty descent in the future, as she has done in the past?  She must have enough of the subject by this time, I think! he! he! he!”

There was a shrill chorus of laughter, which a deep, tragic voice interrupted with the question—­

“What are you all so merry about?” and a figure, in bombazine and rusty crape, stood before them, which was hailed successively by three voices, a cracked soprano, Mrs. Crane—­a high-keyed treble, Miss Cynthia, and a little gasp or gurgle from Mrs. Brown, the lady in brocade, as, “Mrs. Linden!” “My dear creature!” and “That angel Alicia!” and any amount of kissing and shaking of hands, then a general resuming of seats, and the question again asked, “What were you all so merry about, that you did not hear me ring?”

“One of Cynthia’s witty speeches,” replied the lady of the house, and after they had had another laugh, and Miss Cynthia had simpered and shook her curls affectedly, the new-comer proceeded to give the latest version of the Graystone’s downfall and subsequent misfortunes.