"Success," said the Violet.
"Candor," the count.
"Bachelorhood," Miss Milly Mills.
"Punning," his sister Rosalie.
But Tristram shook his head drearily at each response.
"Well, then, tell us," cried a chorus of impatient voices.
"I have prostituted art to lucre—having disposed of my great design of Ajax's shield—for what purpose, do you think?"
All the guesses were wild again.
"For a bed-spread," said Tristram, and there was a chorus of laughter, amid which the circle broke up into little moving knots, all electrically united, however, so that the talk flew from one part of the room to another.
It was one of Tristram's soirees, which were the events of the season in Lenox. The flavor of art was substituted for that of artificiality, and usually some souvenir, bearing the touch of the host's own fanciful hand, was carried away by each of the guests. The coveted invitation for this night's affair announced "a purple tea," and the furnishings verified the description. Rich muslin shades over the chandeliers (Rosalie's work) purpled all the atmosphere of the parlors. Purple hangings here and there carried out the suggestion, but not too obtrusively, and each of the guests appeared with some purple garment.