"Miss Georgy is having a good time. I put in my claim as an old Belfield friend for a couple of waltzes. She has the best pace of any woman here. Handsome girl, but dangerous: devilish amusing, though. Wonder where she got her ideas in that cramped, puritanical little place? Pity she's going to marry such a slow coach as Jack Holt! Beg your pardon--nothing derogatory intended. You must yourself admit that he is rather slow.--By the by, Floyd, how's the heiress?" I knew whom he meant, but did not like his tone, and asked him squarely to whom he referred. He laughed, and looked at me with close scrutiny. "I alluded to Miss Floyd," said he, twisting his long moustache with his gloved fingers. "I don't know many heiresses myself, unlucky dog that I am! and she is such a tremendous one--she is _the_ heiress _par eminence_. She must be fifteen by this time. Remember me to her when you see her, Floyd; or perhaps you write to her?" "Not at all," I answered. "Is she as pretty as ever?" he pursued. "Pretty? She never seemed to me pretty." "Oh, you are too young to recognize beauty when you see it. She was the loveliest child I ever knew, with her pale complexion, her brilliant eyes and aristocratic profile. Georgy Lenox is a gaudy transparency beside her. But I forgot: I must come out and see you at your rooms. Only don't bore me: it is the fashion at universities to talk of subjects never discussed anywhere else by civilized beings, and I can't abide such rubbish. I hear you're quite the pride of your class, Floyd?" "Oh, what wretched nonsense!" "Your modesty pleases me.--Come on, boys: Mrs. Dwight is looking at us."