My dress was a dark blue merino, trimmed on the basque and sleeves with black velvet. It fitted neatly, and was, I knew, unusually becoming; so after arranging my curls and donning a clean linen collar, I took my husband’s arm and went down to the drawing-room, where I found about forty people assembled. With a few of them I was already acquainted, while the majority were only known to me by sight; for though I had often seen them at Cedar Grove, they had not thought it worth their while to notice a mere governess. Now, however, as Ada had said, matters were changed, and Richard Delafield’s wife could not be slighted with impunity. Consequently I was for a time overwhelmed with compliments and attention; some with whom I had never before spoken, expressing their delight at seeing me back again, while others said that a _bride_ was just what was wanting to give éclat to the winter gaieties. Close to my side kept Ada, assuming a kind of patronizing manner and answering for me whenever she thought the conversation beyond my depth. Of course she threw me quite in the shade, and in a measure she had her reward, for she, as well as I, heard a lady, a stranger in W——, say, “How much more beautiful Miss Montrose is than the bride. I wonder Mr. Delafield did not prefer her.” There was a look of exultation on Ada’s face as her eyes met mine, but it passed away as we heard the answer made by Miss Porter, a lady whom Ada thought exceedingly aristocratic. “Yes,” said she, “Miss Montrose is rather pretty, but she is fading fast, and I suppose Mr. Delafield preferred the freshness of youth to the decay of beauty, and for my part, I approve his choice, and think her a very pretty little creature.” I glanced at my husband—he, too, heard the remark and it pleased him, I knew, while Ada crossed over to the opposite side of the room and I saw her no more, for Richard soon asked for me to be excused; a request which the company readily granted, saying, “I must of course be tired.” It was late when Richard came up to our room, and I saw in a moment that something was the matter, for his face wore the dark, hard look it sometimes did when he was disturbed. I did not then ask the cause of his annoyance, but afterwards I learned that the moment the guests were gone, Ada, whose feelings were a good deal ruffled, not only at the attention I had received, but also at the remark of Miss Porter, commenced censuring my husband for having suffered me to appear in the drawing-room in my travelling dress. “’Twas an insult to the company,” she said, “and they could excuse it on no other grounds save the supposition that I was entirely ignorant of etiquette in any form. I didn’t blame her so much,” said she, “for I suppose she didn’t know any better, but I was astonished at _you_.”