"Yes, but he does dance well! and let me tell you that very few men can do so! he strikes the nice balance between le grand and la frivole in his manner! And then his name—Howard—la crême de la crême of aristocratic names. Don't you remember Le Lion blanc of the house of Howard?"
And so she rattled on, talking incessantly of the new acquaintance until we went to bed, and I went to sleep leaving her still talking.
The next morning, I noticed that Mathilde spent more than usual time and attention upon her toilette. She looked very pretty—when did she not?—in her embroidered cambric morning dress, with no ornament but her jetty ringlets flowing down each side her freshly-blooming face.
When we went downstairs, there was Mr. Howard waiting in the hall, to offer Mathilde his arm to the breakfast table.
Afterward at the ladies bowling-alley who but Mr. Howard stood at Mathilde's elbow to hand the balls? Who took her in to dinner? Who made a horseblock of his knee and a stepping-stone of the palm of his hand to lift Mathilde into her saddle? Who attended her in her afternoon ride? In her evening walk? In the duet with the piano accompaniment at night?
Howard—still Howard!
Until after several weeks of this association, at last papa opened his eyes and inquired first of himself and next of his host:
"Who is this Mr. Howard, who is paying such very particular attention to my daughter?"
"Mr. Howard, sir; Mr. Howard is a very talented young mechanic of Boston," answered the proprietor.
"A—what?" questioned the astonished old gentleman.