“Did you know,” she said, addressing the man; “did you know the gentleman who just went in yonder?” “Oh yes, everybody here knows Mr. Clark,” said the man. “I guessed well enough where his carriage was driving to, when it started from the hotel. He is going to marry one of the young ladies; at least the papers say so.” Zulima drew back into the carriage; it seemed as if she would never breathe again; she sat like a famished bird, gazing on the house without the wish or power to move. There seemed to be a large party assembled; gayly-dressed people were constantly gliding before the window, and she could see the gleam of rich wines and trays of fruit, as they were borne to and fro by the attendants. Sometimes a couple would saunter out into the deep old portico, where she could see more distinctly by the wreath of colored lamps, festooned with trumpet-flowers, roses, and honeysuckles that fell like a curtain overhead. Zulima saw one couple after another glide into the flowery recess, and away again, as if the music that came pouring through doors and windows were too exciting for a prolonged _tête-à-tête_. Still she kept her eyes fixed upon the spot; she was certain that Mr. Clark would be among those who haunted that flower nook, so like a cloud of butterflies. She knew his tastes well. Sure enough, while her eyes were fixed on the open doors, through which the background of the portico was flooded with golden light, she saw Mr. Clark come slowly down the hall, not alone—oh, how she had hoped for that—but with a beautiful woman leaning on his arm—leaning heavily with that air of languid dependence which so often marks the first development of passion. His head was bent, and he seemed to be addressing her in a low voice; and though he smiled while speaking, Zulima could see that in repose his face was grave, almost sad. It only lighted up when those large blue eyes were lifted toward him. They sat down in the portico, and seemed to converse earnestly—ten minutes—half an hour, and hours—thus long did the two sit side by side under that canopy of lighted blossoms, and then Zulima could watch them no longer; a heavy faintness crept over her, and in a dull, low voice she asked the coachman to drive her back to the hotel. Poor Zulima! she hoped to see her husband alone in that portico, if it was only for one minute. How long, how patiently had she waited, and that beautiful woman never left his side for a moment. It was very cruel. When Zulima left her room early the next morning, she found Mr. Smith, who seemed to have just left the stage-coach. She knew him at once, and he recognized her with great cordiality. “I have come,” he said, in a low, friendly voice—“I have come in hopes of seeing you with Mr. Clark. He is in the hotel, I hear.” “He is,” said Zulima. “I saw him last night!”