The gentle, rippling murmur of talk fills the room, and at a moment when Moultrie is speaking with his neighbor, Abel says, looking at the engraving of the Madonna, "Miss Grace, I feel like those cherubs." "Why so, Mr.Newt ?" "Because I am perfectly happy." "Indeed!" "Yes, Miss Grace, and for the same reason that I entirely love and admire." Her heart beats violently.

Sligo Moultrie turns and sees her face.

He divines every thing in a moment, for he loves Grace Plumer.
"Yes, Miss Grace," he says, in a quick, thick tone, as if he were continuing a narration--"yes, she became Princess of Este; but the fiery eyes burned her, and the sweet tongue stung her forever and ever." Mrs.Plumer and Mrs.Dagon are rising.

There is a rustling tumult of women's dresses, a shaking out of handkerchiefs, light gusts of laughter, and fragments of conversation.

The handsome women move about like birds, with a plumy, elastic motion, waving their fans, smelling their bouquets, and listening through them to tones that are very low.