stupid fellow said something about would I like to go with him some time during the week. How provokingly vague! But he never made it more definite and final; just never said another word about it. I hate men who neglect things.

Now, my hair is all combed out, and it's not a bad color, either. I never knew that Belle Mason to have as good a time as she undoubtedly had to-night. She was actually surrounded the entire evening; four or five men all the time, and I not more than three. I never did like her; she has such a conceited air; and now she'll be worse than ever. But I should not have cared if every other man in the house had stood by her the entire evening, but to think that even Robert Fairfield was with her constantly! He only bowed AT ME from across the room, and never came near me. At the Monday-night German he gave me, with a hand-touch and a smile, this red rose, then a bud, and I, foolishly, wore it to-night, although it was faded. The horrid, withered thing! Yes, I was actually foolish enough to wear it for his sake, and he all the time by the side of Belle Mason! It was a brilliant affair to-night—so every body said; at least a dozen said as much to me, and I heard a great many more saying that same thing to our hostess. All the people really seemed to have a good time. But somehow I didn't enjoy myself much, and there are several reasons why. I abominate going out with a stupid man; but there was no other to go with, so it was an absolute necessity, because go I must. He brought a shabby, uncomfortable coupe. He had sent ugly, dabby flowers; and he hung about me the entire evening with the silent, confident air of the young person who fancies himself engaged to you. He said nothing; he did nothing—except bring me a melted ice; but he looked a number of unutterably stupid things. And I heard more than one woman, in a loud, coarse whisper, say, "I wonder why she came with that stupid stick of a man?" But, of course, they didn't mean for me to hear it; they would not be so unkind; but, unfortunately for my comfort, I did hear, and every word. But that was not all. It's a hard thing for a woman, in a gay season, to appear each night in a new dress. Of course you can have one nice, white dress, and change the ribbons—sometimes pink, sometimes blue, or any color that may happen to strike your fancy—but sooner or later people will find that out; they will just know it's the same dress with other ribbons, and it's a social deception which fashionable society-idiots just will not tolerate. You must appear in a new dress or an old dress, undisguised. Now, to-night, how was I to know that Mrs. Babbington Brooks could afford to give so elegant an affair, or in fact would be able to induce so large a number of the best and nicest people in town to be present at this, her first entertainment. People said it was going to be crude, perhaps disagreeable. So I wore that pale-blue silk—old shade of blue—which I almost ruined at the Monday-night German. When I entered the dressing-room four or five of my best girl-friends affectionately kissed me on the cheek, and exclaimed something about being so glad that I had worn my pretty, pale-blue silk, and that it was so becoming; and was it not that same "love-of-a-dress" which I had worn at the Monday-night German? Now I really would believe those girls malicious if I did not know they were—each one of the dear, sweet creatures—perfectly devoted to me; because they have told me of their devotion many times, and I know they would not say any thing they did not mean—girls in our set never do!

But this painful fact remains: my pale-blue silk is not becoming! I am entirely too dark to wear pale-blue, and I am just dying for a terra-cotta. It's the loveliest shade in all the world! Papa likes blue, so I ordered it to please him, because he is of the opinion that every body looks well in that color, because mamma always looked well in blue when she was young and beautiful. That reminds me what several old married women said to me at the party to-night: "O, my dear, your mamma was perfectly beautiful when she was your age! And she had so much attention, and from such nice young men!" And they looked right at that stupid fellow, for his silent stupidity had driven away all the other men, who were just as nice as any of mamma's old beaus, too. But those old ladies could not have meant any thing, because they are dear mamma's most intimate friends, and I am sure must take a kindly interest in my welfare. It's a dreadful thing to have had a beautiful mamma, when you are not considered beautiful yourself, in fact barely good-looking.

But quickly to bed, or I will look what I am, tired and worn-out, at the musicale to-morrow evening. I must be fresh and well-rested, because I am to play, and alone, a most difficult instrumental piece. It's one of those lovely "Nocturnes." I wonder if I'll be encored? I was not when I played at the last musicale.

The lights are out! The fire burns low! I thrust back the little dressing-table, with its pretty oval mirror, beveled edges, and dainty drapery of pale pink silk and pure white mull. I tenderly take that withered rose from off the floor, where I rudely tossed it in my anger of an hour ago.

I forget that stupid fellow, my escort; the pale-blue dress, so often worn; the random words—idle, thoughtless, and unkind, at least in their effect; even pretty Belle Mason fades away, and her charm and her triumph no longer remembered against her. I go a-drifting from all unpleasant memories! I murmur a prayer learned at mamma's knee long years ago, and alas! for long years left unsaid. I kneel in the firelight glow, I tenderly, fondly kiss that red rose. True, it is withered and dead, yet how sweet it is to my lips, and how dear it is to my heart! Something whispers that I love the man who gave it me! It seems to quiver to life again, and tremulous with a strange, new joy, I remember the hand-touch and the smile which came with the giving of that red rose.

II

A Dash of Jealousy and Hypocrisy
Done up in Old Gold.

Robert Fairfield, Lover.

Robert Fairfield is an average man among men—but he is something more: He is the ideal man among women. All women have ideals, and there is not, there can not be a more dangerous piece of heart-furniture. An ideal is easily broken, sometimes badly damaged, always liable to injury; and the heart of woman hath not one cabinet-maker who can, with his touch and skill, bring back one departed charm, one lost beauty.

I know this man—and yet I do not. I love him—and yet, again, I do not. I suspect that, woman-like, I am more fond of his charming, delicate attentions than I am of the man himself. I sometimes fancy that he loves me; but I am wise enough in my day and generation to be painfully aware of the fact that just about six other women entertain the same delicious fancy. He has told me of his love, told me in a gentle, artistic manner—and doubtless he has told the six other females the same story; for he need not trouble himself to vary the telling each time, because he has no fear of detection.

He knows that he is never the topic of conversation among women. They seldom, if ever, discuss their ideals, and all of them, myself included, have a most evidently-conscious air whenever dear Robert's name happens to be mentioned, no matter how trivial the mention. But I am the least touched, and surely the more unresponsive of the entire seven, consequently he