“Lorindy, my dear!” he exclaimed to Mrs. Peckham,—­“I think there can be no impropriety in our joining the family down-stairs.”

Mrs. Peckham laid her large, flaccid arm in the sharp angle made by the black sleeve which held the bony limb her husband offered, and the two took the stair and struck out for the parlor.  The ice was broken, and the dressing-room began to empty itself into the spacious, lighted apartments below.

Mr. Silas Peckham slid into the room with Mrs. Peckham alongside, like a shad convoying a jelly-fish.

“Good-evenin’, Mrs. Sprowle!  I hope I see you well this evenin’.  How ’s your haalth, Colonel Sprowle?”

“Very well, much obleeged to you.  Hope you and your good lady are well.  Much pleased to see you.  Hope you’ll enjoy yourselves.  We’ve laid out to have everything in good shape,—­spared no trouble nor ex”—­

“pence,”—­said Silas Peckham.

Mrs. Colonel Sprowle, who, you remember, was a Jordan, had nipped the Colonel’s statement in the middle of the word Mr. Peckham finished, with a look that jerked him like one of those sharp twitches women keep giving a horse when they get a chance to drive one.

Mr. and Mrs. Crane, Miss Ada Azuba, and Miss Mahala Crane made their entrance.  There had been a discussion about the necessity and propriety of inviting this family, the head of which kept a small shop for hats and boots and shoes.  The Colonel’s casting vote had carried it in the affirmative.—­How terribly the poor old green de-laine did cut up in the blaze of so many lamps and candles.

—­Deluded little wretch, male or female, in town or country, going to your first great party, how little you know the nature of the ceremony in which you are to bear the part of victim!  What! are not these garlands and gauzy mists and many-colored streamers which adorn you, is not this music which welcomes you, this radiance that glows about you, meant solely for your enjoyment, young miss of seventeen or eighteen summers, now for the first time swimming unto the frothy, chatoyant, sparkling, undulating sea of laces and silks and satins, and white-armed, flower-crowned maidens struggling in their waves beneath the lustres that make the false summer of the drawing-room?

Stop at the threshold!  This is a hall of judgment you are entering; the court is in session; and if you move five steps forward, you will be at its bar.

There was a tribunal once in France, as you may remember, called the Chambre Ardente, the Burning Chamber.  It was hung all round with lamps, and hence its name.  The burning chamber for the trial of young maidens is the blazing ball-room.  What have they full-dressed you, or rather half-dressed you for, do you think?  To make you look pretty, of course!  Why have they hung a chandelier above you, flickering all over with flames, so that it searches you like the noonday sun, and your deepest dimple cannot hold a shadow?