"Do I? Well, it is very likely, though, I am sure, we always called you Hepworth; but that's nothing; in our Bohemian set we generally preferred the given name, and sometimes only took half of that. Ah, ho! here come our friends at last!"
The curtain was flung back, revealing what seemed a crowd in the hall, which soon came forward, with little ceremony, and some rather riotous noise.
Olympia was in her element now. Heart and soul she loved society, and all these persons were picked people of her own choice—brilliant persons in their various capacities, each bringing a store of wit or some accomplishment to swell the general gaiety. Artists, dilettanti noblemen, epicures, and persons who would have accompanied Orpheus in all his explorations for the music he could give them.
Of course, there was high mirth and some sparkling wit among a group like this, in which several females mingled brilliantly, and sang like sirens after Olympia had set them the example. These were professional, of course, but wonderfully clever, and talked charmingly, as women who are reckless of criticism usually do; but in all that was said, a certain vein of doubtful license sometimes brought the color to Caroline's cheek. She could not thoroughly understand the conversation of these people. They seemed to have come out of another world to astonish and bewilder her. She knew that some of the men present were noblemen, and saw that their manners, and even the tones of their voices, changed when they addressed her.
From the secluded life she had led, this girl was incapable of making quick comparisons. She only knew that none of these men possessed the gentle tenderness or the proud bearing of the teacher, who had become to her a beau-ideal of true manhood. Of all the men present she felt the most sympathy with Hepworth Closs. He had been in America, had known the places she loved so well, and could understand her loneliness in a scene like that; but there was something even in this man that startled her a little.
His fine eyes were frequently lifted to her face with a look that troubled her, a look that seemed to go beyond her and far away into the past or future. What was he thinking of? Why were his answers about America so dreamy and vague? Why did he look so sad while the voice of Olympia was filling the whole house with such glorious bursts of music?
Before she could answer any of these questions, Olympia arose from the piano, and, with a light wave of her hand, said:
"Come, Caroline, let them hear what is in your voice."
How careless and natural it all seemed! What a tumult of smiles and entreaties followed these few caressing words!
They were words of iron to that proud, shrinking girl. She knew how much of stern, selfish power lay under the peach-like softness of that voice. Her color went and came; her lips parted in absolute terror. She understood now why she had been permitted to join her mother's guests for the first time.