MR. CRIST.

Mr. Crist came into the room, black from head to foot save for the snowy linen at his bosom and wrists, where it fell over a pair of immaculately white gloves. Certainly the man had done his best to appear like a gentleman, and even held himself almost upright as he came in.

"Ah! Crist, you are welcome. I am glad you came early, it gives us a few minutes for conversation. My dear, it is Mr. Crist."

"Yes, I know," answered Constance, reaching out a reluctant hand. "One sees Mr. Crist so often that he hardly requires a presentation. But you have something to say to each other."

With a wave of her hand, Constance left the two men, and passing under a cloud of amber-hued silk that supplied the place of folding doors, entered the blue saloon beyond, where she sat down, flushed with indignation, angrily beating the carpet with her foot, and striking her fan against her knee with a force that shattered the delicate pearl handle all to pieces.

"I hate this man," she muttered, "they are too much alike—always some privacy between them. If I cared enough about either of them to ask, their secret, whatever it is, would not be one long. I was born to find such things out; but to have him here, when every invitation was to be select! I have half a mind to order him out of the house."

As Constance muttered these things to herself, a little confusion arose in front of the house, and Church came forward, looked through the curtains, and called to her,

"Constance—Constance, your guests are at the door."

Sure enough! a carriage drew up at the house; a gust of fresh air swept in through the front door, and with it came a rustle of silks, the gleam of white opera cloaks, and the fall of gliding feet as they went up to the dressing-room. Then another, and still another carriage, and a bevy of stately men and pretty women fluttered into the soft wax-light that flooded the drawing-room, in which the most beautiful and popular woman in Washington waited to receive them.

The most trying position for any American lady is a dinner table in the national capital, where the best intellect and most brilliant wit of the country is sure to be met, and mere beauty goes to the wall, unless sustained by superior ability. But even here, Constance sustained herself well. With her, rare natural capacity took the place of elaborate accomplishments. From her first plunge into the fashionable life of the metropolis, she had measured her own quick wit and ready tact with others, and maintained her self-confidence so well, that no man or woman would have guessed that all these scenes were new to her.

That night, Constance was resplendent; no hostess ever received her guests with finer wit, or more cordial hospitality. In that broad, soft light, amid the glitter of crystal and gleam of silver, with the sweet breath of blooming flowers floating around her, the girl we have known in that faded and stifling tenement parlor, might have passed for a queen among her subjects—for the woman filled her station with the graceful talent of a practiced diplomat.

Church, who sat opposite his wife, watched her that night with a glow of genuine pride. Who among all that brilliant party could compare with his wife? Even the sumptuous wealth with which he surrounded her, seemed too little for a nature so fair, so witty, and so exquisitely genial. No wonder the man who sat next her seemed entranced by that clear sweet voice and sparkling conversation. But one thing annoyed him. Mr. Crist, by an arrangement of his own, had been placed at the left hand of the hostess, who resented the intrusion by scarcely noticing him. This made the fox-like face of her unwelcome guest lower ominously, and he cast sharp glances across the table, that pierced Church like arrows.

Other things had arisen to anger this man, who was nothing more in fact than the head of an important bureau in the Treasury department, but who, by audacity and an adroit way of granting favors, had lifted himself into a sort of companionship with the statesmen who made him. But a disgraceful odium had been cast around the man of late; and the guests at that table recognized his presence with a coldness that disturbed both him and his host. So a strange, surly expression came over his face, as he sat by this brilliant woman, which made him look older and sterner than you would have thought him, if you judged him only from that iron gray beard and hair.

Constance cared nothing about his discontent, but turned her white shoulder more decidedly upon him, and went on sparkling and fascinating every one around her. When she arose from the table, and entered the drawing-room, Church managed to get near her, and she saw that fierce displeasure burned in his eyes.

"Woman, are you mad? Beware how you insult my friends in this fashion."

Constance heard this fierce whisper, gave her husband a haughty stare, and went on with her conversation, though she heard his breath come quick, and his teeth grind together in ominous fury.

When the party broke up that night, this man Crist remained behind; for Church had urged his stay, hoping that Constance would atone, by some graceful concession, for her dangerous rudeness. But with the lofty disdain of a goddess she swept from the room, and went up stairs, passing out of their sight like some tropical bird, heedless of snares, and defying all danger.