CHAPTER XLIX.
A SELECT PARTY.
On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr.Abel Newt entertained a few friends at supper.

The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps, blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but the street and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease.
It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within.
The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of the lord of the feast.

It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression.
There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those who had seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her--a look with which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar.

But the companions of his revels were not shrewd of vision.

It was not Herbert Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans.
She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more luxurious than they.