“Perhaps I am not so very obtuse as you fancy.”

“At any rate, I shall not enter into detail,” answered Beulah, smiling quietly at the effect of her words.

“Do you ever weary of your books?” Cornelia leaned forward, and bent a long searching look on her guest’s countenance as she spoke.

“Not of my books; but sometimes, nay, frequently, of the thoughts they excite.”

“A distinction without a difference,” said the invalid coldly.

“A true distinction, nevertheless,” maintained Beulah.

“Be good enough to explain it then.”

“For instance, I read Carlyle for hours, without the slightest sensation of weariness.  Midnight forces me to lay the book reluctantly aside, and then the myriad conjectures and inquiries which I am conscious of, as arising from those same pages, weary me beyond all degrees of endurance.”

“And these conjectures cloud your mind?” said Cornelia, with a half-smile breaking over her face.

“I did not say so; I merely gave it as an illustration of what you professed not to understand.”

“I see your citadel of reserve and mistrust cannot be carried by storm,” answered Cornelia petulantly.

Before Beulah could reply, a servant entered, and addressed Cornelia.

“Your mother wants to show your Paris hat and veil, and handsomest point-lace set, to Mrs. Vincent, and Miss Julia says, can’t she run up and see you a minute?”

A sneering smile accompanied the contemptuous answer, which was delivered in no particularly gentle manner.

“This is the second time those ‘particular friends’ of ours have called to inspect my winter outfit.  Take down my entire wardrobe to them:  dresses, bonnets, mantles, laces, handkerchiefs, ribbons, shawls—­nay, gloves and slippers, for there is a ‘new style’ of catch on one, and of bows and buckles on the other.  Do you hear me, Mary? don’t leave a rag of my French finery behind.  Let the examination be sufficiently complete this time.  Don’t forget the Indian shawl and the opera cloak and hood, nor that ornamental comb, named after the last popular danseuse; and tell Miss Julia she will please excuse me—­another time I will try to see her.  Say I am engaged.”

Some moments elapsed, during which Mary opened and shut a number of drawers and boxes, and finally disappeared, staggering beneath a load of silks, velvets, and laces.  As the door closed behind her, Cornelia smoothed her brow, and said apologetically: 

“Doubtless it seems a mere trifle of accommodation to display all that mass of finery to their eagerly curious eyes; but I assure you that, though I have not been at home quite a week, those things have vacated their places at least twenty times for inspection; and this ridiculous mania for the ‘latest style’ disgusts me beyond measure.  I tell you, the majority of the women in this town think of nothing else.  I have not yet looked over my wardrobe myself.  Mother selected it in Paris, and I did not trouble myself to examine it when it was unpacked.”