“Why, papa has brought up Mr. Hows!” I said.  “How very—­” my exclamation of pleasure was checked by surprise at the appearance of his brother, the musical editor of the Express, followed by our friends, Dr. Taylor and Colonel Rogers.

“Is this a surprise party?” Marguerite and I inquired blankly.

My dear friend Lela Paraf then tripped out, assisted by her elegant husband, and followed by Mr. Eugene Durkee and his brother, two Paris friends of ours.  Then the car door opened once more, and “our young chief,” as papa calls Mr. Reid, and Colonel Hay issued—­a surprise party indeed.

Ida had intended to invite only a few young gentlemen to spend the day with us, fearing that if she sent out invitations to ladies to dinner, some enterprising reporter might announce that she had given at least a fete champetre, if not a bal masque, which in our deep mourning would not be an agreeable report to be in circulation; but Lela is so charming and dear to us all, and has remained so faithfully my most intimate friend for the last six months, notwithstanding the rival that I dreaded in her husband, that Ida made an exception for her.

As we were marshalling our regiment to return to the house, a tall, dark, distinguished-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed, hastened towards us.  Who he was I could not imagine, but as his face seemed familiar, I welcomed him with a beaming smile.  He must, however, be very near-sighted, I thought, for he overlooked my extended hand, merely bowing very low, and going on towards the house.

“Who is he, Ida?” I said in a whisper; “I don’t remember his name.”

“I suppose not,” said Ida, laughing; “though you have seen him often enough.  It is Emile, from Delmonico’s.  I sent for him to help Minna serve the table.”

I was no longer surprised that my distinguished-looking gentleman did not shake hands with me.

When we were upon the croquet ground, I had an opportunity to admire Lela’s toilette.  A born Queen of Fashion, her dresses even when as a school-girl were my admiration, and her toilette for my birthday showed the refinement of delicacy and taste:  for, not wishing to be the only lady present in colors, she wore a black grenadine, with black bows and a black lace hat; her diamond ear-drops and one half-blown deep red rose alone testifying that her mourning robe was only worn through sympathy.

We had sat three hours at the table, and were lingering over the ices and awaiting the coffee and fruit, when a shrill whistle, warning the guests that the train was nigh, caused a flight more rapid than that of Cinderella.  Farewells were left unspoken, and “French leave” taken in good earnest, as our friends made a short cut through the garden of Bischoff, the trainmaster, who lives opposite us.  Their departure could scarcely be said to be graceful, but as they had only three minutes’ time to meet the train, it was obligatory.