When Margaret entered her apartment, she caught sight of a letter on her dressing-table, and immediately her brows contracted. She knew the hand. It was from Charley Somers, and, to tell the truth, this young gentleman was somewhat in disgrace. He had some friends in Washington, and, a short time back, he had written to Margaret to ask her to allow him to come on and see her, with the ostensible purpose of visiting these friends. Margaret had written at once, and distinctly forbidden him to come. The mere suggestion made her indignant. It had the air of asserting a claim when no shadow of such existed. She supposed she had finally settled the matter, and what had he to say in this letter? She tore it open hastily and ran her eyes down the length of its pages; when she reached the end she threw it from her, with a motion of angry indignation. Mr. Somers wrote to say that the tone of her letter had made him feel so uneasy that, even at the risk of incurring her displeasure, he was coming on to Washington. Margaret hastily pulled out her watch. There was yet time to catch the Southern mail. She threw off her hat and wraps, and sitting down at her desk scratched off a few hurried lines, saying to Mr. Somers, that he might come to Washington or not, exactly as it suited his pleasure, but forbidding him, in plain terms, to call upon her in the event of his doing so. Without pausing to read it over, she addressed and sealed the letter, and rang for a servant to post it. CHAPTER XIII. When Miss Trevennon, dressed for the ball, descended to join her cousin that memorable December evening, she looked undeniably lovely, and so Mrs. Gaston admitted to herself with supreme satisfaction. The young girl’s tall beauty was superbly displayed by this rather severe costume--with its heavy, gleaming drapery falling about her, white and plain. The flounces of rich lace made a splendid trimming for the long skirt, which trailed behind her in a graceful, shimmering mass, and the pointed body outlined to perfection her round and pliant waist. The dress was cut high, and a fall of the lovely lace finished the throat and sleeves. Miss Trevennon’s clear-cut, soft-tinted face was somewhat inanimate this evening. The ball had lost much of its charm since she had contemplated the prospect in the morning. In the first place, the possibility of Charley Somers coming to Washington troubled her, and, in the second, Alan Decourcy’s words and looks, with a chance of their repetition this evening, made her uneasy. Besides these, there was a feeling of disappointment, all the keener for being unowned, even to herself, that Louis Gaston should not be here to welcome her back, and to share the interest and pride Cousin Eugenia so evidently took in her appearance at this ball.