"Every young man in the room has rushed at her--positively rushed!--and her programme was full five minutes after she arrived! Isn't she looking lovely to-night ?--a perfect sylph! _Do_ tell me you think she is a sylph!" David's old eyes twinkled.
"I have never seen a sylph, Mrs.Sorrel, so I cannot make the comparison," he said; "but Lucy is a very beautiful girl, and I think she is looking her best this evening.

Her dress becomes her.

She ought to find a good husband easily." "She ought,--indeed she ought! But it is very difficult--very, very difficult! All the men marry for money nowadays, not for love--ah!--how different it was when you and I were young, Mr.Helmsley! Love was everything then,--and there was so much romance and poetical sentiment!" "Romance is a snare, and poetical sentiment a delusion," said Helmsley, with sudden harshness.

"I proved that in my marriage.

I should think you had equally proved it in yours!" Mrs.Sorrel recoiled a little timorously.