When the party rose a few minutes later and went into the parlors again, Helen was the first to enter, upon the arm of her neighbor.  She was thinking of Mr. Harrison; and as she glanced about her, she could not keep from giving a slight start.  Far down at the other end of the room she had caught sight of the figure of a man, and her first thought had been that it must be the millionaire.  His frail, slender form was more than half concealed by the cushions of the sofa upon which he was seated, but even so, Helen could discover that he was a slight cripple.

The man rose as the party entered, and Aunt Polly went towards him; she apparently expected her niece to follow and be introduced to the stranger, but in the meantime the truth had occurred to Helen, that it must be the Mr. Howard she had been told of; she turned to one side with her partner, and began remarking the pictures in the room.

When she found opportunity, she glanced over and saw that the man had seated himself on the sofa and was talking to Mrs. Roberts.  He looked, as Helen thought, all the invalid her aunt had described him to be, for his face was white and very wan, so that it made her shudder.  “Dear me!” she exclaimed to herself, “I don’t think such a man ought to go into public.”  And she turned resolutely away, and set herself to the task of forgetting him, which she very easily did.

A merry party was soon gathered about her, rejoicing in the glory of her presence, and listening to the stories which she told of her adventures in Europe.  Helen kept the circle well in hand that way, and was equally ready when one of the young ladies turned the conversation off upon French poetry in the hope of eclipsing her.  Thus her animation continued without rest until Mrs. Roberts escorted one of the guests to the piano to sing for them.

“She’s keeping me for Mr. Harrison,” thought Helen, laughing mischievously to herself; “and I suppose she’s picked out the worst musician first, so as to build up a climax.”

It seemed as if that might have been the plan for a fact; the performer sang part of Gluck’s “J’ai perdu mon Eurydice,” in strange French, and in a mournful voice which served very well to display the incompatibility of the melody and the words.  As it happened, however, Mistress Helen heard not a word of the song, for it had scarcely begun before she turned her eyes towards the doorway and caught sight of a figure that drove all other ideas from her mind.  Mr. Harrison had come at last.

He was a tall, dignified man, and Helen’s first feeling was of relief to discover that he was neither coarse-looking, nor even plain.  He had rather too bright a complexion, and rather too large a sandy mustache, but his clothes fitted him, and he seemed to be at ease as he glanced about him and waited in the doorway for the young lady at the piano to finish.  While the faint applause was still sounding he entered with Mrs. Roberts, moving slowly across the room.  “And now!” thought Helen, “now for it!”