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Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of action.

He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room of his father. But the evening before she left, Mrs. Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans. So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had written Abel, and who was just about leaving school, left school and entered society, simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and making her courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt’s.

Madame de Feuille’s was a “finishing” school. An extreme polish was given to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By her generous system they were fitted to be wives of men of even the largest fortune. There was not one of her pupils who would not have been equal to the addresses of a millionaire. It is the profound conviction of all who were familiar with that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from marrying a crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined himself to Christian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke—so perfect was the polish, so liberal the education.

Mrs. Newt’s party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and the Magots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, a lovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and eyes; Dr. and Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Maundy, who came only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people. It was a Summer party, Abel said—mere low-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream.

The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease of an accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowing gravely to those of his mother’s guests whom he did not personally know.

“Who is that?” asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently returned with her daughter, one of Madame de Feuille’s finest successes, from a foreign tour.

“That is my brother Abel,” replied Miss Fanny.

“Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he is to Viscount Tattersalls. You’ve not been in England, I believe, Miss Newt?”

Fanny bowed negatively.

“Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a very superior young man. We were very intimate with him indeed. Dolly, dear!”

“Yes, ma.”

“You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?”

“Was he a bishop?” asked Miss Fanny Newt.

“Law! no, my dear. He was a—he was a—why, he was a Viscount, you know—a Viscount.”

“Oh! a Viscount?”

“Yes, a Viscount.”

“Ah! a Viscount.”

“Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord Tattersalls?”

“Yes, ma.”

“It’s very striking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, ma?”

“Very like indeed.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Dolly, dear, don’t you think his nose is like the Duke of Wellington’s? You remember the Wellington nose, my child?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Or is it Lord Brougham’s that I mean?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Yes, dear.”

“May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tally?” asked Fanny Newt.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Miss Tully.

Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of which opened the conservatory.

“Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,

And sair wi’ his love he did deave me:

I said there was naething I hated like men—

The deuce gae wi’m to believe’me, believe me,

The deuce gae wi’m to believe me.”

The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out. The voice of the singer was arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel Newt as she finished, and a murmur of pleasure rose around her.

Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer. He was fully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed to sister Fanny when she spoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred Dinks. It was necessary to remove any suspicion that she might entertain in consequence. If Mr. Abel Newt had intentions in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any reason why Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter?

As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming toward him through the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixed upon the singer.

“How beautiful!” said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking Grace Plumer directly in the eyes.

“Yes, it is a pretty song.”

“Oh! you mean the song?” said Abel.

The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid upon the piano and began to play with them.

“How very warm it is!” said she.

“Yes,” said Abel. “Let us take a turn in the conservatory—it is both darker and cooler; and I think your eyes will give light and warmth enough to our conversation.”

“Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in the conservatory,” said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen! She was seventeen in May.)

“No, no,” said Abel, “we shall find the tropics in that conservatory.”

“Then look out for storms!” replied Miss Plumer, laughing.

Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the humming room. The arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low.

He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it was. It was his sister.

“Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully.”

“My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss Tully, I am sure, is charming. I would go with you with all my heart if I could,” said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; “but, you see, all my heart is going here.”

Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man.

Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook her head gently. Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in the conservatory presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposely dim.

“How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!” said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring that Abel was obliged to hold her arm more closely.

“Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?”

“Yes; but I prefer them living.”

“Living flowers—what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?” asked Grace Plumer, hanging her head.

Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almost hidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he.

“My dear Grace,” began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; but the conservatory was so still that the words could have been easily heard by any one sitting upon the sofa.

Some one was sitting there—some one did hear. Abel smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion. His manner was full of tender devotion. He and Grace came nearer. Some one not only heard, but started. Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny’s. Somebody else started then; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne.