When, on the second evening after her arrival, she came into the great parlors of the hotel—for there was to be a grand hop or assembly there that night—leaning on Mr. Rosevelt’s arm, and looking “so divinely fair” in her shimmering robe of cream-colored silk and mist-like tulle, garnished with velvet-leaved, golden-hearted pansies, her shining hair coiled like a crown about her small head, with a little cluster of pansies nestling lovingly among its glossy plaits, every eye was attracted by her loveliness, and everybody—of the masculine gender, at least—was ready to “rave over” her, “swear by” her, and “fight for” her if need be. It is needless to say that she was not allowed to become a wall-flower, and it was amusing to observe the maneuvers of the battalion of gallant young knights who swarmed about her, like bees around their queen, eager to secure an introduction. And now the excitement for Star began. She was whisked away to the ball-room, and the evening sped like a vision of delight. She had been taught to dance at home, notwithstanding the fact that her father was a clergyman, for in all English homes dancing is considered a necessary accomplishment, because it imparts ease and grace to the manners of the young. Mr. Rosevelt followed, for he enjoyed looking upon the merry dancers, and taking up his station near a window, and by a stand of flowers where he was partially shielded from observation, he watched his pet with a fond smile upon his lips, proud of her beauty, proud of her intelligence and of the admiration she was attracting. While standing here, a group of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen gathered near him, and he overheard a conversation which amused him, and caused at the same time something of a feeling of triumph to pervade his heart. “Have you seen the new arrivals?” asked a gentleman of one of his companions. “No; what new arrivals do you refer to? There are many every day.” “An old codger from New York—rich as a king, they say—and his ward, who bids fair to be _the_ beauty of the season.” “_In_deed!” returned the lady, assuming a piqued tone. “How dare you make such an assertion, and in the presence of three acknowledged beauties, too?” “I beg pardon if I have offended,” the gentleman roguishly replied; “but—I have had _Washingtonian_ instructions regarding the principle of _truth_.” The young lady tapped him playfully upon the arm with her fan, while she remarked, significantly: “How glad I am that you have _told_ me of it!” whereupon the whole party joined in a laugh at the “truthful” gentleman’s expense. “But about this fair charmer,” the lady pursued; “who is she, and what is the name of this ‘old codger’ who is ‘rich as a king’?” “The lady’s name is Miss Gladstone, and she is not only beautiful, charming, and rich, but is also the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’ which you have doubtless read.”