“They remind me irresistibly of a pair of plump babies sucking at opposite ends of a stick of sugar candy!” Rosa Tazewell said aside to the hostess, as the latter paused beside her on her way through the hall to the parlor.

“The candy is very sweet!” replied Mrs. Aylett, charitably, but laughing at the conceit—­the low, musical laugh that was at once girlish in its gleefulness, yet perfectly well-bred.

Mr. Aylett heard it from his stand on the parlor-rug, and sent a quick glance in that direction.  It was slow in returning to the group surrounding him.  He had married a beautiful woman—­so said everybody—­and a fascinating, as even everybody’s wife did not dispute.  In his sight, she was simply and entirely worthy of the distinction he had bestowed upon her; an adornment to Ridgeley and his name.  From their wedding-day, his deportment toward her had been the same as it was to-night—­attentive, but never officious; deferential, yet far removed from servility; a manner that, without approximating uxoriousness, yet impressed the spectator with the conviction that she was with him first and dearest among women; a partner of whom, if that were possible, he was more proud than fond—­and of the depth and reality of his affection there could be no question.

She declined to seat herself in the circle, although warmly importuned by her guests thus to add brilliancy to their joyous party, yet remained standing near Rosa, interested and amused by the running fire of compliment and badinage that went to make up the hilarious confusion.  If the family record had been consulted, the truth that she had counted her thirty-second summer would have astonished her husband, with her new neighbors.  Apparently she was not over twenty-five.  Her chestnut hair was a marvel for brightness and profusion, her broad brow smooth and white, her figure, as Winston had described it to his sister, rounded, even to voluptuousness, yet supple as it had been at fifteen.  In her cheeks, too, the blushes fluctuated readily and softly, and when she smiled, her teeth showed like those of a little child in size and purity.  Her voice matched her beauty well, never loud, always melodious, with a peculiar, gliding, legato movement of the graceful sentences, for the pleasing effect of which she was indebted partly to Nature, and much more to Art.  She appeared on this evening in a green silk dress, matronly in shade and general style, but not devoid of coquettish arrangement in the square corsage, the opening of which was filled with foam-like puffs of thulle, threatening, when her bust heaved in mirth or animated speech, to overflow the sheeny boundaries.  A chaplet of ivy-leaves encircled her head, and trailed upon one shoulder; her bracelets were heavy, chased gold without gems of any kind; a single diamond glittered—­a point of prismatic light at her throat.  Her wedding-ring was her only other ornament.

“Very sweet, I grant you, and very flavorless,” returned Rosa.  “And alarmingly apt to turn sour upon the stomach.  I had rather be fed upon pepper lozenges.”