"Ida, you'll be overheard! I'm ashamed of you," returned the stately Cornelia, with an air of offended propriety.
"It will never do, Puss," said I; "Corné is right. But, Corné, what
happened to the senator?"
"How courteous he is!" exclaimed the young lady, with sudden enthusiasm. "A servant came and whispered to him—'Miss Lunettes,' said he, turning to me, 'the only man in the world who could tempt me from your side—my best friend—asks for me on important business. Will you permit me to leave you, after requesting the honor of attending you?' Of course, I assented. 'Make my apologies to Miss Ida and Colonel Lunettes,' said he, as we shook hands, 'I am very unfortunate.'"
"How quietly he slipped away," said Ida; "I knew nothing of it, until he was gone."
"Well-bred people are always quiet," remarked the elder sister, significantly.
"Oh, dear me!" retorted Ida, coloring. "Well, it's too much to expect of any one, not to laugh at such a nondescript specimen of humanity as that young man."
The next morning, before I left my room, a card was brought to me, inscribed with the name of "Frederick H. Alloway," and inclosed with the following note:
"The son of one of Colonel Lunettes' old friends begs leave to claim the honor of his acquaintance, and will do himself the pleasure to pay his respects, at any hour, this morning, that will be most agreeable to Colonel Lunettes.
"Metropolitan Hotel,