THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LADY IN WASHINGTON GIVES A DINNER PARTY.

She stood before her mirror, preparing to descend into the magnificent drawing room below, in which the guests for a sumptuous dinner party would assemble in a few minutes,—stood and looked at herself with a glow of such proud satisfaction as perfect beauty might well bring to its possessor.

You would not have known this beautiful woman at the first glance, for she was a vision of loveliness so different and superior to anything you have seen in Constance Hudson, that her best friend might have hesitated to claim her as the girl who had passed under that name. She seemed taller, for the robust health of her first youth had softened into exquisite delicacy of outline; violet shadows lay under her eyes, and the thick curling lashes seemed to have grown longer; but this change was nothing to the brightness and glory that had fallen upon her hair; a golden hue kindled its deep soft brown into something radiant, changing the whole face so materially that the woman scarcely recognised herself.

"Madam can hardly recognise herself," lisped the French maid who stood behind her, smoothing down the loops of a sash in which she had mingled the gossamer lightness of a Brussels lace scarf, which flowed like a mist over the folds of her satin dress, and lost itself in the train as clouds melt into the blue of a summer sky, "It is superb. There will not be a toilet that can equal it."

Constance turned quickly. The fire that struck from the diamonds on her bosom, quivered like lightning athwart the glass, and completely dazzled her.

"You are right," she said, with a tone of sadness running through the triumph in her voice. "I should not know myself."

"Here is Madame's fan, and a tiny bouquet which Monsieur Church desires that you should wear for his sake."

A slight frown contracted that clear forehead, and the red lips curved.

"Put them away," she said. "I do not like the perfume. Besides, it is enough that I have accepted his diamonds. Give me my fan and my handkerchief. Now shake out the folds of my train. I am going down."

Standing just within the drawing-room door, and looking out into the broad hall, stood the master of the house, waiting for a first glance of the woman who had so grown into his heart, that his love for her had become almost abject worship. His heart leaped as he heard the soft rustle of her movement, and saw the silken-clad foot plant itself lightly on the first step of the broad staircase, adown which her dress swept in waves as she descended toward him in all her superb loveliness.

The man absolutely trembled as he reached forth his hand to welcome her. She did not touch it even in thankfulness for the jewels that blazed upon her bosom, but held up her dress with one hand, and occupied the other with her handkerchief, passing him by with a careless nod and more careless "thank you," as she entered the drawing-room.

"Ah, this is beautiful," she said, looking around for some object that made the air fragrant with odors, and advancing to a great vase overflowing with hot-house flowers, which took her by surprise. A card lay among the blossoms "From the President!" "How kind," she added, with a certain haughty carelessness, as if such gifts were common to her.

"Few ladies in Washington can boast of a compliment like that, Mrs. Church," said the master of the house, drawing close to Constance, and attempting to steal his arm around her waist, but she evaded him with a graceful sweep of the person, saying:

"Oh yes, I understand how pleasant such things would be, if they always came for the first time, and to no one else. Dear me, here comes another huge arrangement of flowers; bring them in Mr. Church, and let me know who they are from."

Church took a basket of flowers from the servant who was bringing them in, and carried them to his wife.

"From Senator ——," she said, opening a note that came with the basket—"how tiresome the man is getting to be. Thinks they will be pretty for my table, does he? Well, let them be put somewhere, among the ornaments. This is a bribe for the privilege of leading me in—but it's no go. I—" Constance checked herself, and turned crimson, but cast a defiant look on her husband, as if daring him to say a word about this little outbreak of her old character.

"I only wish it were etiquette to lead you in myself," said the husband, "to own the truth, Constance, I almost hate the man who takes you from my side under any pretence."

"I dare say. You are awfully jealous, a mole might see that—for the life of me I cannot tell why; for these great men we hear so much about dwindle down to nothing when we get close to them. Here, John, take these and arrange them on the table—came from the public hot-house, I dare say," added the reckless woman, as the servant carried off her flowers. "The people taxed to pay for every blossom, or the men up yonder would not be half so liberal."

"Ah, Constance, the admiration of these men has spoiled you," said Church, rather pleased with her imperial disdain.

"Their admiration—no, no, Mr. Church, I am not child enough for that—but here comes a guest."

There had been no sound of a carriage, but the door opened, and Constance caught a glimpse of a rather tall and spare man in black, who bent forward in his swift walk up the hall, moving with a sort of plunge, as if he had some enemy ahead which he hoped to pounce upon.

"It is Crist," said Church, speaking under his breath, as if afraid that the name would not be received with favor by the haughty woman at his side.

"What, that wretch! How came he with an invitation, I sent him none?" Constance demanded, with prompt repudiation in her voice and manner.

"But I did, Mrs. Church, and it is important that you receive him with civility at least, if you have any regard for your husband's interest."

"But he is under the ban already. Charges are made before some committee against him, for conduct official and social, that make him an unfit associate for any honest man or respectable woman—one of our invited guests is chairman of that committee."

Church laughed and rubbed his gloved hands with infinite relish of the simplicity betrayed by this speech.

"What does all that amount to? They will meet like bosom friends; Crist has patronage which his judges will not like to disturb. You will see, you will see."