And thus they sobbed themselves to sleep, the child and the child mother, pure alike in His eyes who judgeth not by outward appearance, and to whom the secrets of all hearts are known.
CHAPTER XX.
In a private parlor of one of our great Southern cities sat two young men, in dressing-gowns, smoking-caps, and slippers. On a table between them stood a silver cigar-stand, a bottle of wine covered with cobwebs, and two empty glasses. The room was exquisitely furnished, with the exception of some questionable drawings upon the walls, and the young men themselves were what boarding-school misses would have called "perfect loves." Their hands were very white, their whiskers in a high state of cultivation, their cravats were quite miraculous, and their diamond rings of the purest water.
"Is this your last trophy?" asked Grey, poising a slipper of Cinderella dimensions on the palm of his hand.
"That? not by a score," carelessly answered Vincent, changing his diamond ring to the other hand; "that belongs to the pretty boarding-school girl. I really had quite forgotten her. I wonder what ever became of her? She was a perfect little Hebe, effervescent as Champagne, quite worth a three months' siege."
"And believed herself married to you, I suppose?" asked Grey.
"Of course," said Vincent, laughing; "she was the most trusting little thing you ever saw, primevally innocent in fact; it was quite refreshing. How's the wine, Grey?"