Had Isabel Montford been an uneducated young lady, she might have flounced out of the _salon_, in obedience to her displeasure, which was very decided; but as it was, she drew herself to her full height, and swept through the folding-doors. The General took a very large pinch of snuff. “That is so perfectly a copy of her poor aunt!” he murmured;—“just so would she pass onward, like a ruffled swan; she went after that exact fashion into the ante-room, when she refused me, for the fourth time, thirty-five years ago.” The young Isabel re-entered, and curtseyed. The gentleman seated himself, leaned his clasped hands upon the head of his beautiful inlaid cane—which he carried rather for show than use—and said, “Young lady, you look a divinity! Your _tourneure_ is perfection; but your curtsey is frightful! A dip, a bob, a bend, a shuffle, a slide, a canter—neither dignified, graceful, nor self-possessed! A curtsey is in grace what an _adagio_ is in music;—only masters of the art can execute either the one or the other. Why, the beauty of the Duchess of Devonshire could not have saved her reputation as a graceful woman, if she had dared such a curtsey as that.” “I assure you, sir,” remonstrated the offended Isabel, “that Madame Micheau——” “What do I care for the woman!” exclaimed the General, indignantly. “Have I not memory?” “Can you not teach me?” said Isabel, amused and interested by his earnestness. “I teach you!—I! No; the curtseys which captivated thousands in my youth were more an inspiration than an art. The very queen of _ballet_, in the present day, cannot curtsey.” “Could my aunt?” inquired Isabel, a little saucily. “Your aunt, Miss Montford, was grace itself. Ah! there are no such women now a-days!” And, after the not very flattering observation, the General moved to the piano. Isabel’s brows contracted and her cheeks flushed; however, she glanced at the looking-glass, was comforted, and smiled. He raised the cover, placed the seat with the grave gallantry of an old courtier, and invited the young lady to play. She obeyed, to do her justice, with prompt politeness; she was not without hope that _there_, at least, the old gentleman would confess she was triumphant. Her white hands, gemmed with jewels, flew over the keys like winged seraphs; they bewildered the eye by the rapidity of their movements. The instrument thundered, but the thunder was so continuous that _there was no echo_! “The contrast will come by-and-by,” thought the disciple of the old school—“there must be some shadow to throw up the lights.”