The Prince of the house is every where, smiling, sinuous, dark in the eyes and hair.
It is already late, and there is no disposition to be seated.

Sligo Moultrie stands by Grace Plumer, and she is very glad and even grateful to him.

Abel, passing to and fro, looks at her occasionally, and can not possibly tell if her confusion is pain or pleasure.

There is a reckless gayety in the tone with which he speaks to the other ladies.

"Surely Mr.
Newt was never so fascinating," they all think in their secret souls; and they half envy Grace Plumer, for they know the little supper is given for her, and they think it needs no sibyl to say why, or to prophesy the future.
It is nearly midnight, and the moon is rising.