From this vantage-ground they could see the distinctive features of the assembly pass before their eyes. Girls who danced well striving to look graceful in the arms of men who danced ill, or floundering women bringing disgrace and misery upon embracing men. Dancers of the old school, whose forte lay in quadrilles and contra-dances, cutting strange capers, with faces of earnest gravity. People smiling whenever spoken to, and without hearing what was said; and on-lookers smiling, by a sort of photographic process, at fun in which they had no concern. Introductions, where the lady was self-possessed and bewitching, the gentleman monosyllabic and poker-like; others, where he was off-hand, ogling, and facetious; she, timid, credulous, and blushing. All kinds of costumes, from the solitary dress-coat, and low-necked ball-dress, worn respectively by Mr. and Mrs. Van Brueck from Albany, to the mixed tweed sack and trousers, and the checked gingham, adorning the Browne boy and girl. "How foolish it all seems when you're not doing it yourself!" remarked Cornelia at last, laughing softly. "But very wise when you are." "How beautifully you danced! I didn't know you could." "I never did before--I couldn't, with any one but you. As soon as we touched each other, I felt every thing through you." "It was very strange, wasn't it? and yet I don't wonder at it, somehow." "It would have been stranger not to have been so." "Why, how have you been hearing what I said?" suddenly exclaimed Cornelia, looking at him in surprise; "I've been almost whispering all this time!" "Have you? It sounded loud enough to me. But I could hear you think to-night, I believe. Will it be so to-morrow, do you suppose?" "To-morrow!" repeated Cornelia. "Dear me! to-morrow is my last day here." "The last day!" echoed Bressant, in a tone of dismay. "Shall we find one another the same as to-night when you come back?" "Why not?" responded she, with a resumption of cheerfulness. "I sha'n't be gone but three months."