Having heard Madame Brugière, the fashionable widow, speak of Mr. Vance as the handsomest man in New Orleans, Laura was possessed with the desire of bringing him into her circle of admirers. So, one day after dinner, she begged her father to stroll with her through a certain corridor of the hotel. She calculated that Vance would pass there on his way to his room. She was right. “Is that Mr. Vance, papa?”—“Yes, my dear.”—“O, do introduce him. They say he’s such a superb musician. We must have him to try our new piano.”—“I’m but slightly acquainted with him.”—“No matter. He goes into the best society, you know.” (The father didn’t know it,—neither did the daughter,—but he took it for granted she spoke by authority.) “He’s very rich, too,” added Laura. This was enough to satisfy the paternal conscience. “Good evening, Mr. Vance! Lively times these! Let me make you acquainted with my daughter, Miss Laura. We shall be happy to see you in our parlor, Mr. Vance.” Vance bowed, and complimented the lady on a tea-rose she held in her hand. “Did you ever see anything more beautiful?” she asked.—“Never till now,” he replied.—“Ah! The rose is yours. You’ve fairly won it, Mr. Vance; but there’s a condition attached: you must promise to call and try my new piano.”—“Agreed. I’ll call at an early day.” He bowed, and passed on. “A very charming person,” said Laura.—“Yes, a gentleman evidently,” said the father.—“And he isn’t redolent of cigar-smoke and whiskey, as nine tenths of you ill-smelling men are,” added Laura.—“Tut! Don’t abuse your future husband, my dear.”—“How old should you take Mr. Vance to be?”—“About thirty-five.”—“O no! Not a year over thirty.”—“He’s too old to be caught by any chaff of yours, my dear!”—“Now, papa! I’ll not walk with you another minute!” A few evenings afterwards, as Laura sat lonely in her private parlor, a waiter put into her hand a card on which was simply written in pencil, “MR. VANCE.” She did not try to check the start of exultation with which she said, “Show him in.”