solid gold, simply modest.  The eye is pleased by this chastity—­pure whiteness, the glow of yellow, the slight touch of sensuous warmth in the rose.  The dinner was in keeping, short, noiselessly served under the eye of the maitre d’hotel, few courses, few wines; no anxiety on the part of the host and hostess—­perhaps just a little consciousness that everything was simple and elegant, a little consciousness of the background; but another generation will remove that.

If to Margaret’s country apprehension the conversation was not quite up to the level of the dinner and the house—­what except that of a circle of wits, who would be out of place there, could be?—­the presence of Mr. Henderson, who devoted himself to her, made the lack unnoticed.  The talk ran, as usual, on the opera, Wagner, a Christmas party at Lenox, at Tuxedo, somebody’s engagement, some lucky hit in the Exchange, the irritating personalities of the newspapers, the last English season, the marriage of the Duchess of Bolinbroke, a confidential disclosure of who would be in the Cabinet and who would have missions, a jocular remark across the table about a “corner” (it is impossible absolutely here, as well as at a literary dinner, to sink the shop), the Sunday opening of galleries—­anything to pass the hour, the ladies contributing most of the vivacity and persiflage.

“I saw you, Mr. Henderson”—­it was Mrs. Laflamme raising her voice—­“the other night in a box with a very pretty woman.”

“Yes—­Miss Eschelle.”

“I don’t know them.  We used to hear of them in Naples, Venice, various places; they were in Europe some time; I believe.  She was said to be very entertaining—­and enterprising.”

“Well, I suppose they have seen something of the world.  The other lady was her mother.  And the man with us—­that might interest you more, Mrs. Laflamme, was Mr. Lyon, who will be the Earl of Chisholm.”

“Ah!  Then I suppose she has money?”

“I never saw any painful evidence of poverty.  But I don’t think Mr. Lyon is fortune-hunting.  He seems to be after information and—­goodness.”

Margaret flushed a little, but apparently Henderson did not notice it.  Then she said (after Mrs. Laflamme had dropped the subject with the remark that he had come to the right place), “Miss Eschelle called on me yesterday.”

“And was, no doubt, agreeable.”

“She was, as Mrs. Laflamme says, entertaining.  She quoted you a good deal.”

“Quoted me?  For what?”

“As one would a book, as a familiar authority.”

“I suppose I ought to be flattered, if you will excuse the street expression, to have my stock quotable.  Perhaps you couldn’t tell whether Miss Eschelle was a bull or a bear in this case?”

“I don’t clearly know what that is.  She didn’t offer me any,” said Margaret, in a tone of carrying on the figure without any personal meaning.

“Well, she is a bit of an operator.  A good many women here amuse themselves a little in stocks.”