"Tame praise for such beauty," said Ida.
"What then? superb—magnificent? and if I wish to describe the Alps or Niagara, can you help me to a word?"
"You do not affect the florid style now in vogue?"
"No. It is the vice of American language and literature. We 'pile on the agony,' until the idea is smothered; plain words lose their meaning, become too weak to go alone, and have to be bolstered up by sonorous adjectives."
Ida smiled, and turned her head to look for Ellen Morris. Charley remarked the movement, and imitated it.
"Ha! can it be!" he exclaimed.
"What!" she questioned.
"I cannot be mistaken! it is he! What wind has blown him hither? An old—I thought, a transatlantic friend; the gentleman with the moustache, conversing with one of the bridesmaids."
"Ellen Morris! I see him; but he deserves more than the doubtful designation of the 'gentleman with the moustache.' Who, and what is he?"