Darrell, on the contrary, was devoted to the whole sex, their petted and curled darling. He thought a woman the object of the highest consequence,—that is to say, next to sport, which he regarded as something sacred, ranking with Church and State. He always had a dozen love–affairs on hand, and like the man in the old song, “He loved the ladies, every one.” In Darrell’s eyes, Pelham’s only fault was that he considered these love–affairs legitimate subjects of chaffing and laughing, while Darrell took them all with perfect seriousness. It was Pelham who, in his desire to see the world, so far as his narrow purse would permit, had induced Darrell to plunge, so to speak, to the extent of going to India by way of the United States and spending three weeks in Washington, relying upon economy for the next five years when they would be with their regiment in India in the Punjaub. They were somewhat surprised, however, to find that in the capital of the richest country in the world there was no great amount of splendor in those days, but rather a modest standard of living for a capital. In particular it appeared to them this evening that the splendor of the ball was conspicuous by its absence. It must be premised, however, that they had not then seen the supper, which was truly regal. Exteriorly, they could not but compare the scene with the real magnificence of such an occasion in London during the season, with the superb coaches magnificently horsed, the gorgeous–liveried footmen, the army of servants lining the stairways and the approaches, and the universal elegance which pervades these balls of the summer nights given under the sky of London. At the Washington ball, however, they saw only a moderate number of private carriages, ordinary in every way, a vast number of shabby old cabs,—known then as “hacks,”—gentlemen arriving on foot, and even young ladies, their ball–dresses discreetly covered with large cloaks, tripping along the streets, with their escorts of father or brother carrying a party–bag. This, remember, was before the Deluge, that is to say at least fifteen years ago. The building in which the ball was held was large and plain, both inside and out, but blazing with lights. The street itself had long since been deserted by fashion. The negroes, never absent from a spectacle in Washington, with their white teeth shining in the wintry moonlight lined the sidewalk. A few white persons loitered under the gas–lamp, watching the long line of carriages discharging their inmates at the big, wide–open door, from whence the strains of the Marine Band floated out into the cold, still night.