“I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the elements of a true lady, to me.”
“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.
“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp enough, and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with heads.”
“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a most searching glance.
“For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the new.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”
“Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb the spirit of the occasion.”
“I am glad you do. Come this way.” He led her to a remote part of the room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.
“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.
A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a conversation by saying,—