About the broad and spacious
grounds festooned lights hung from tree to tree; here and there
little rose-scented bowers for tete-a-tete talks were set; from
within, streaming through the windows in regal beauty, came the
lights of the vast ballroom, the reception-rooms, and the beautifully
designed dining-hall--lately added by young Morris Black, the
architect, to Mrs. Howlett's already perfect house.
On the ballroom floor are some ten or twenty couples gracefully
waltzing to the strains of Sullivan, and in the midst of these we see
Marguerite Andrews threading her way across the room with some
difficulty, attended by Mr. and Mrs. Willard. They have just
arrived. As Marguerite walks across the hall she attracts every one.
There is that about her which commands attention. At the instant of
her entrance Count Bonetti is on the qui Vive.
"Py Chove!" he cries, as he leans gracefully against the doorway
opening into the conservatory. "Zare, my dear friend, zat iss my
idea of ze truly peautiful woman. Vat iss her name?"
"That is Miss Andrews of New York, Count," the person addressed
replies.
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