The brilliant woman shot one sweeping glance out of her expressive eyes at the gentleman and then extended her faultlessly gloved hand to him in cordial greeting.

“I am very glad to make Mr. Palmer’s acquaintance,” she said, graciously, “although,” she added, with a charming smile, “I cannot look upon him quite as a stranger, for I have friends who frequently speak of him, and in a way that has made one wish to know him personally.”

Mr. Palmer flushed slightly as he bowed in acknowledgment of such high praise, and remarked that he felt himself greatly honored.

Mrs. Montague then adroitly changed the tenor of the conversation, and kept him chatting some time, before he thought of Mona again, and when he did, he hardly knew how to broach the subject to his companion.

“Have you resided long in New York, Mrs. Montague?” he inquired, after a slight pause in their conversation.

“Only about six months, but, Mr. Palmer, during that time, I have found your city a most delightful one, socially,” the lady returned.

“I understand that Mrs. Montague is quite a favorite in society, which accounts, in a measure, perhaps, for her own enjoyment of its people,” the gentleman gallantly responded.

Mrs. Montague flushed slightly and lowered her white lids, modestly, for an instant, and Mr. Palmer continued: 

“Allow me to ask, Mrs. Montague, if you ever met Mr. Walter Dinsmore?”

“Dinsmore—­Dinsmore,” repeated his fair companion, with a puzzled expression; “it seems as if I have heard the name, and yet—­I am quite sure that I have met no such person since my residence in New York.  Let me see,” she added, as if suddenly remembering something—­“did I not read in the papers, a short time ago, of the death of the gentleman—­he was quite a prominent citizen, was he not?”

“Yes, and much respected; he died suddenly, leaving a large fortune.  The reason I inquired if you knew him,” Mr. Palmer explained, “was because he left a niece whose name is the same as yours, and I thought possibly you might be a relative of the family.  Miss Mona Montague is the young lady’s name.”

“Mona Montague?” repeated Mrs. Montague, burying her face for an instant in the bouquet she carried as if to inhale its perfume.  “No, I think not—­I have no relatives in New York except a nephew, who is the same as a son to me.  We came to your city entire strangers to every one.  But how old is this Miss Montague?”

“About eighteen years of age, I believe.  She was said to be a very beautiful girl, and every one supposed her to be Mr. Dinsmore’s heiress; but it seems that he had a wife living, although he was supposed to be a widower—­who claimed everything, and thus Miss Montague was rendered homeless and penniless.  She has certainly disappeared from the circle in which she hitherto mingled.”

“How exceedingly unfortunate!” murmured Mr. Palmer’s fair listener, with apparent sympathy.