He was a young New Yorker—one of the jeunesse dorée—returning home after three months’ absence. On the first day out he had fallen a victim to Cinthia’s charms, and gladly renewed a former acquaintance with Madame Ray, in order to secure an introduction to the beauty.
As the actress knew him to be in every respect a most desirable parti, she was very glad to present him to Cinthia, secretly hoping that he might manage to supplant Arthur Varian in her tender heart.
Cinthia certainly found him interesting, he was so good-looking, with his six feet of athletic manhood, flashing dark eyes, and jetty hair and mustache, while with his ready flow of small-talk he was very amusing. She accepted his patent admiration and his respectful attentions with the coolness of a belle accustomed to adulation, letting him entertain her when she chose, and carelessly dismissing him when not in the mood.
Her mood was not very propitious now, and it was a very cold smile she gave in answer to his remark that she must have left her heart behind on foreign shores.
“All the heart I have I brought back with me, although I must confess to a fondness for the Old World,” she answered; adding: “I am not enthusiastic over my return, because I have really no near relatives in America, and papa and I intend to resume our wanderings in our own country after a short rest.”
Frederick Foster exclaimed, eagerly:
“May I be permitted to know where the foot of the dove will first rest?”
“I think we shall probably spend a few days at Newport while maturing our plans,” Cinthia answered, carelessly.
Foster’s handsome countenance beamed with frank delight.
He cried, joyously: