“Sometimes I fear Annette. I have seen her! She makes eyes at Peter, she admires him, and lets him see it--and men are so easily captured.” “But then, Annette does not want to capture Peter. She is only amusing herself. She makes eyes at all good-looking young men. She cannot help it.” “Your grandmother ought not to allow her to do so.” “Poor grandmother! She does not know it, or see it. If she did, she could as easily prevent a bird from singing as keep Annette from looking lovely things out of her beautiful eyes. And really, mother, she intends no wrong. How can she help being so pretty and so clever?” “Peter could have taken them home last night without the assistance of Leonard Murray--and Leonard wanted to stay a while here, but Annette asked him with one of those ‘lovely looks’ to walk with them, and Leonard never once objected.” “How could he?” “And this morning she will have no recollection of either Peter or Leonard. She will be busy with the conquest of this Mr. St. Ange.” “If so, Mr. St. Ange will soon be her captive. I shall think no worse of him for a ready submission. ‘Honour to the vanquished!’ was a favourite device of the knights of the olden times.” Mrs. Bloommaert was, however, a little out of her calculation. So was Annette. Both had been sure St. Ange would avail himself of the earliest possible hour in which a call could be politely possible; and Annette, somewhat to her grandmother’s amusement, had dressed herself in the fascinating little Dutch costume she had worn at a St. Nicholas festival. She said she had done so because it was so warm and comfortable for a cold morning; and she smoothed the quilted silk petticoat and the cloth jacket down, and made little explanations about them and the vest of white embroidery, which neither deceived madame nor herself. Her fair hair was in two long braids, tied with blue ribbons; her short petticoat revealed her small feet dressed in grey stockings clocked with orange; and high-heeled shoes fastened with silver latchets. She was picturesque and very pretty, and armed from head to feet for conquest. But, alas! St. Ange came not. In fact he was comfortably sleeping while she was watching; and it was not until the middle of the afternoon he made the promised visit. He had been dining at Mr. Grinnel’s the previous evening, and had afterwards gone to the theatre with a large party. And he lamented with an almost womanly plaintiveness the bitter cold, that, for him, spoiled every entertainment. The theatre, he said, was at freezing point; and how the ladies endured the temperature in their evening gowns was to him a marvel. Then he looked round madame’s fine old room with its solid oak, and massive silver, its curtained windows, thick carpet, plentiful bearskin rugs, and huge blazing fire, and said with a happy sigh: “It was the only room fit to live in that he had seen in New York. Handsome rooms! oh, yes, very handsome rooms he had seen, but all cold, killing cold!”