In honor of the Christmas Eve (I supposed) she wore an evening dress of black lace, and the only word for what she looked has suffered such misuse that one hesitates over it: yet that is what she was--regal--and no less! There was a sort of splendor about her. It detracted nothing from this that her expression was a little sad: something not uncommon with her lately; a certain melancholy, faint but detectable, like breath on a mirror. I had attributed it to Jean Valjean, though perhaps to-night it might have been due merely to bridge. “What is it?” asked Dowden, when, after an apology for disturbing the game, I had drawn him out in the hall. I motioned toward the front door. “Simeon Peck. He thinks he's got something on Mr. Beasley. He's waiting to see you.” Dowden uttered a sharp, half-coherent exclamation and stepped quickly to the door. “Peck!” he said, as he jerked it open. “Oh, I'm here!” declared that gentleman, stepping into view. “I've come around to let you know that you couldn't laugh like a horse at ME no more, George Dowden! So YOU weren't invited, either.” “Invited?” said Dowden, “Where?” “Over to the BALL your friend is givin'.” “What friend?” “Dave Beasley. So you ain't quite good enough to dance with his high-society friends!” “What are you talking about?” Dowden demanded, impatiently. “I reckon you won't be quite so strong fer Beasley,” responded Peck, with a vindictive little giggle, “when you find he can use you in his BUSINESS, but when it comes to ENTERTAININ'--oh no, you ain't quite the boy!” “I'd appreciate your explaining,” said Dowden. “It's kind of cold standing here.” Peck laughed shrilly. “Then I reckon you better git your hat and coat and come along. Can't do US no harm, and might be an eye-opener fer YOU. Grist and Gus Schulmeyer and Hank Cullop's waitin' out yonder at the gate. We be'n havin' kind of a consultation at my house over somep'n' Grist seen at Beasley's a little earlier in the evening.” “What did Grist see?”