“Know her? Stop,—let me see. I know that party she is with. I met them here at this house a few mornings ago. Let me see,—there is General Lyon, and Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, and—yes, the young creature you admire so justly is Mrs. Lyon.” “‘_Mrs._’—did you mean to say ‘Mrs.?’” “Yes, ‘Mrs.’ I remember perfectly well being as much surprised as you are at seeing so childlike a creature introduced by a matronly title.” “But she is never the wife of that old man? It would not—that sort of union—be May and December, it would be April and January!” “Oh, no, she is not his wife—she is his niece, I think. Yes, I am sure he introduced her as his niece, Mrs. Lyon.” “_Mrs._ Lyon? that child.” “Well, I tell you, I was as much surprised as you are to hear her called so; but then I reflected that in America, as in all young nations, people marry at a very early age.” “Ah! but where is _Mr._ Lyon?” very pertinently inquired Lillespont. “Oh, Mr. Lyon? I don’t know that there is any Mr. Lyon. I have somehow or other received the impression that this childish beauty is a young widow, and a very wealthy one also.” “A youthful, beautiful, and wealthy widow,” said Lillespont, musingly. “Lord John, you say you know her,—will you introduce me?” “With pleasure,—come,” said the elder man, leading the way to the bay-window. Alexander followed them no further, but muttering to himself: “Ass, puppy, coxcomb!” and other injurious epithets—probably applied to Lillespont—withdrew to a convenient spot from which, unseen, he could see all that might be going on in the bay-window. He saw the old gentleman called Lord John take Lillespont up and present him to General Lyon, who forthwith presented him to the ladies of his party. And next he saw the young duke bow deeply to Drusilla, and make some request, to which she graciously responded. And then he saw her rise and give her hand to Lillespont, who, with the air of a conqueror, led her off. Alexander ground his teeth together with rage and jealousy. They passed down the room and onward towards the dancing saloon, where new quadrilles were being formed. And the duke led his beautiful partner to the head of one set. And there as everywhere else a low, half-suppressed but sincere murmur of admiration followed her. Alexander foamed with fury, and hurried away from the scene because he could not trust himself to remain. Of course he had not the least right to be jealous or indignant, but just _because_ he had no such right—and he knew it—he was all the more furious. It enraged him to see her looking so beautiful, blooming, happy, and independent of him, enjoying herself and exciting universal admiration in society, when he thought, by rights, she ought to be pale, and sad, and moping in some obscure place. It infuriated him to see her the object of another man’s homage.