So far had he progressed in his studies, when a voice over his shoulder said, "Miss Thomas--Mr. Vane." Inferring that he was being presented, he turned quickly about, bowing as he did so. The young lady did not wait for him to begin, but at once rattled off a number of questions about himself and his foreign life. As the most of these she answered herself with an "I suppose," or a "but of course," Vane had leisure to observe her while she talked. She was pretty; admirably, sweetly pretty; there was no doubt of that; as pretty as masses of dead-black hair and eyes of intense gentian blue could make her. She had a lovely neck and hands; and a smile which seemed placed there with a divine foreknowledge of kisses. It was at once infantine, arch and gentle; and then there was a pretty little toss of the head and a shrug of the white, young shoulders. Vane looked at her curiously, a little condescendingly perhaps, as the first specimen of the natives he had seen. She did not seem to mind his looking at her. If a French girl had so calmly borne his glance, there would have been a little of the coquette in hers. But, after all, thought Vane,--this was charming; more ideal, more intelligent, sweeter than Paris--but it was not unlike Paris. The dress was certainly Parisian. She was better dressed than young ladies are in Paris. Her people must be very rich. Yet, he was disappointed. She was not American enough. She would have been quite in his mood of five years gone by. She was not like English girls; and he had hoped American girls were like them. Vane had just finished this process of mentally ticketing her off, when she grew silent. The first quick rush of her conversation was gone. She seemed to be getting her breath and waiting for him. He did not quite know how to begin. This young lady reminded him of a glass of champagne. When you first pour it out, there is a froth and sparkle; then a stillness comes; if you wish a fresh volume of sparkles, you must drop something into it. A piece of sugar is best. Vane's French breeding stood him in good stead: he began with a compliment. After the dinner, the nine ladies disappeared from the room; and the nine men grouped themselves at one end of the table and smoked cigars over the sweetmeats. When the room was well filled with tobacco-smoke, they threw open the doors, and returned to the drawing-room. The ladies were grouped about, picturesquely, drinking tea; and the air was delicate with their presence. As the body of men moved in, it seemed a little like an incursion of the Huns into Italy. The party kept together but a few moments more. Most of the men were sleepy; little was said by the women. It was as if there were nothing to talk about, or as if the men had eaten too much; but they had eaten very little. Vane was relieved when they got out of doors.