"She too feels the menace of the future," thought Ely, a quarter of an hour later, while her maid was arranging her hair in the chamber of honor that had been given her next to that of the dead girl. "Marsh is disconsolate to see Chésy confronted by a terrible disaster. Andryana is preparing for marriage, haunted by remorse and fear. Florence is uncertain of ever being able to wed the man she loves. And Hautefeuille and I, with a phantom between us, which he does not see, but which I see so clearly, and which to-morrow, or the day after, in a week or two, will be a living man, who will see us, whom I shall see, and who will speak,--will speak to him." A prey to this growing melancholy, the young woman took her seat at the dinner table, laden with the costly flowers that delight the ostentatious Americans. Incomparable orchids spread over the table a carpet of the softest hues. Other orchids were wreathed about the candles and the electric chandelier suspended from the varnished ceiling; and amid this prodigality of fantastic corollas, gleamed a set of goldware of the time of Louis XIV.--the historical personage who was second only to Napoleon in the estimation of this Ohio democrat, who evinced, on this point, as on so many others, one of the most astonishing inconsistencies of his compatriots. And the bright tones of the wainscoting, the precision of the service, the delicacy of the food and wine, the brilliant toilets of the women, made this a setting for the consummation of refinement, with the sea visible through the open portholes, still motionless, and now touched by the rays of the crescent moon. Marsh had ordered the boat's speed to be slackened, so that the vibration of the screw was scarcely noticeable in the dining-room. The hour was really so exquisite, that the guests gradually yielded to the charm, the master of the boat first of all. He had placed Madame de Carlsberg in front of him, between Chésy and Hautefeuille, in order to have Madame de Chésy on his left, and in his tones and looks, as he talked to her, there was an amused and tender affection, a protecting indulgence, and an inexpressible depth of reverie. Resolved to save her from the danger which Chésy's confidences had suddenly revealed, it was as though he were going to do something more for the other, for the dead one whose image was sleeping in the rear room. He laughed at the follies of Yvonne, delicious in her pink dress, a little excited by the dry champagne whose golden foam sparkled in the glass,--a gold the color of her hair,--and still more excited by the sense of pleasing--the most dangerous and the only intoxication that women thoroughly enjoy. Miss Marsh, all in blue, seated between her and Chésy, listened to his discourse upon hunting, the one subject on which this gentleman was well informed, with the profound attention of an American girl who is gathering new information. Andryana Bonnacorsi was silent, but cheered