The day of the party she wrote a few little violet-perfumed notes, and sent them off.  This is a specimen: 

“DEAR DOCTOR:  You have so often wanted to know your ‘nebulous child,’ and been indignant that she hid her face from you behind her veil of clouds, you will be pleased to know that the sunshine has dispelled the clouds, and made her at last able to meet the starry train of which you are the sun.  Will you greet Ross Norval’s bride at the Wilber party to-night as the child you have trained and been so good to in the past, and who, ever honoring you, is still your loving child for the future?  If you’ll ask me prettily to-night, I’ll sing the foolish words I made for the sweet, tripping Languedoc air you sent me last year.  I am, now and ever,

  “MIRA CANAM.”

In consequence of these notes, when Ross led his wife into the room, arrayed in a crimson cloud of his choosing, which made even her brown face a picture, all her bronze hair, her husband’s glory, floating round her far below her waist, confined lightly here and there by diamond clusters, which sparkled like stars amidst its creped luxuriance—­“Daring to dress in the very height of the fashion,” said Leta, “and all those diamonds on her—­his mother’s, of course;” and of course they were—­the consequence, I say, was, that first one distinguished man and then another met her with a warm greeting—­“deucedly warm,” thought the jealous fellow, who was so uncertain of her yet, and wanted all of her—­and were introduced to “my husband.”  Taking for granted that “my husband” was glad to get her off his hands, they took possession of her, to his infinite disgust.

These were the men with whom she could talk, whose minds struck diamond flashes from her own, whose thoughts she had followed for years, and who looked upon her as their peer, and deferred to her opinion on many things.  And she, knowing Ross was her amazed listener, was stirred to do her best before him—­glad her triumph over her relatives should be in his presence and brought to her through his means.  It may not have been a lovely thing in her to desire or enjoy a victory, but ah! it is so natural, and my little heroine had had hard lines meted out to her for years.  Besides, no woman is free, you know, from vanity:  only men are that.

She stood near the door of the dancing-room.  Ross came to her after every dance, but it was always, “Not me yet, Ross—­Leta, or Jennie,” or whoever stood nearest her.  Even the girl to whom report had given him (with reason) the year before was, at her open entreaty, which he could not evade, his partner; but half the time he stood beside her, forgetful of the dance in listening to the conversation in which she bore so large a part.

A lull in the music after supper announced the suspension of dancing hostilities for a time, that due strength might be gathered for the last waltz, and then the German.  The time was occupied by a very weak tenor, who came to an ignominious end in the middle of “Spirito Gentil.”  Miss Jennie Barton and her cousin Laura gave a sweet duo, in rather a tearing style, Jennie being a fast young lady everyhow; another lady sang a Scottish ballad as if it had been manipulated by Verdi; then one of the gentlemen said, “Mr. Norval, I hope you will lay your commands on your wife to sing for us.”