“He will be disappointed, or I am mistaken,” he said to himself as the two, who had been conversing near him, moved to another part of the room.  “But if Melvina Fenton has so little of that sensitive innocence, that shrinks from the presence of guilt as to dance with him, and suffer her hand to be touched by his, my mind is made up.  I will never marry her.”

“She is the queen of beauty to-night, Clarence,” said a friend coming to Henry’s side, and speaking in an under tone.

“She is, indeed, very beautiful; but I cannot help thinking a little too showy.  Her dress would be very good for the occasion were those variegated roses taken from their blue ground.  Flowers never grow on such a soil; and her head dress is by far too conspicuous, and by no means in good taste.”

“Why you are critical to-night, Clarence.  I thought Melvina one of your favorites?”

“I must confess a little good will towards her, and perhaps that is the reason of my being somewhat particular in my observation of her style of dress.  Certainly, she makes a most decided sensation here to-night; for every eye is upon her, and every tongue, that I have yet heard speak is teeming with words of admiration.”

“That she does,” responded the friend.  “Every other girl in the room will be dying of envy or neglect before the evening is over.”

“That would speak little for the gallantry of the men or the good sense of the young ladies,” was the quiet reply.

Several times the eye of Henry Clarence wandered around the room in search of Caroline—­but he did not see her in the gay assemblage.

“She told me she would be here,” he mentally said, “and I should really like to mark the contrast between her and the brilliant Miss Fenton.  Oh! there she is, as I live, leaning on the arm of her father, the very personification of innocence and beauty.  But her face is too calm by half.  I fear she is cold.”

Truly was she as Henry Clarence had said, the personification of innocence and beauty.  Her dress of snowy whiteness, made perfectly plain, and fitting well a figure that was rather delicate, but of exquisite symmetry, contrasted beautifully with the gay and flaunting attire of those around her.  Her head could boast but a single ornament, besides her own tastefully arranged hair, and that was a sprig of buds and half-blown flowers as white as the dress she had chosen for the evening.  Her calm sweet face looked sweeter and more innocent than ever, for the contrast of the whole scene relieved her peculiar beauty admirably.

“An angel?” ejaculated a young man by the side of Clarence, moving over towards the part of the room where Caroline stood, still leaning on the arm of her father.

“We wanted but you to make our tableau complete,” he said, with a graceful bow.  “Let me relieve you, Mr. Gay, of the care of this young lady,” he added offering his arm to Caroline—­and in the next minute he had joined the promenade with the sweetest creature in the room by his side.