Meanwhile, all had not been peace and serenity in the magnificent mansion whither they were bound. The dinner, which to Karl Metzerott and his kind appeared like riotous feasting, was, in the opinion of those immediately concerned, a very quiet affair indeed; for anything like gayety so soon after the death of so near a relative as Freddy Richards would have been dreadfully shocking to the feelings, and obviously improper. But a mere family dinner, in honor of the betrothal of Frank Randolph and the fair Virginia, was quite another thing; and though, of course, all black was too sombre for one so bright and young as Pinkie, nothing could be deeper mourning than her dress of white crape, caught here and there with bunches of lilies of the valley. Certainly nothing could have been prettier or more “wildly becoming.” The pretty, plump throat shone whitely between the folds of lace at the V-shaped neck of the corsage; the round arms were hidden below the elbow only by a fall of the same priceless lace, faint and misty as frost-work on the window-pane. The eyes were bright, the red lips curved into frequent smiles; but Pinkie’s lilies were the work of art, not nature. She would not wear natural flowers now; she hated them, she said; and of all flowers she hated most deeply the pale and fragrant tea-rosebuds. She presided, for the first time, on an occasion of any moment, with a very pretty, childlike dignity, to the intense admiration of Virginia’s rich bachelor uncle, who was, as Pinkie knew very well, the matrimonial fish specially designed by kind friends for her daintily barbed hook; but whom she had not the remotest intention of doing more than tease and play with. In all, including a cousin or two on her mother’s side, and various representatives of the house of Dare, the party numbered not more than a dozen; so it was, however costly and brilliant the surroundings, decidedly a very quiet affair. Coffee was on the table, and Henry Randolph held up one of the tiny cups in which it was served, to show the daintiness of the figures inlaid upon it in mother-of-pearl and gold, and studded here and there with infinitesimal jewels. “Genuine Japanese,” he said, “and belonging to a period of art, past at least two hundred years. I bought them from a seafaring friend, and he picked them up—I fancy, they were given to him—somewhere on the islands.” “Perhaps he stole them,” observed Pinkie. “Ah, well! we won’t be uncharitable,” said her father indulgently; “at all events, _I_ paid for them, and roundly too; the fellow knew my fancy for this sort of thing, and took advantage of it.” “Very immoral of him to take advantage of a man’s necessities,” said the elder Dare quietly. “Well, you know, sailors are a rough lot; one can’t expect very fine feelings from them. At all events, there isn’t such a set of cups in the world. They have never been used before, and I don’t know when I shall care to use them again.”