“That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New York’s prominent bankers.”
“She is beautiful—a queen by divine right,” cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to present him.
And thus they met.
Mrs. Llewellyn’s entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season, and Epicurus’ soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy—and Mrs. Llewellyn’s dining-room was crowded.
Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory.
“A desire for happiness is our common heritage,” he was saying in his richly melodious voice.
“But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult,” she replied.
“Not necessarily,” he went on; “if the motive is clearly within our grasp, the attainment is possible.”
“For example?” she asked.
“The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal.”