grand dames of the upper social heavens are not to be depended upon when literature or philosophy is the only attraction offered, even when a grand dame is herself holding the reception. There are so many petty jealousies, and so many rival courts; and, moreover, the grand dames have so many questions of social diplomacy to occupy them--men, for instance (_nice_, eligible men are scarce); consequently they do not often come under the spell of the literary impressario, who gains a precarious subsistence in the lap of luxury; and, besides, the afternoon is the meridian of the shopping fever. The large drawing room was crowded on this particular afternoon, and Mrs. Vincent was in high feather, for she had secured the new poet of the season, Mr. Blanco Winterbourne, to give his lecture on “Ideals of Beauty in Modern Life.” This was in itself a victory. Winterbourne was a brand new poet, who had dropped straight from the skies and been immediately accepted in London, so that he had all the freshness and glamour of a debutante, and his reputation being still in the making in the inner circles of society, the gold dust was still upon his wings, unbrushed and untarnished by the chill after-thoughts of envious Grub Street criticism. Everybody sat in an attitude of rare rapture, and every time the lecturer uttered some especially well sounding and uplifting sentiment, and paused a moment for the rapid click of eyes, some fine idealist in the group would fix the hostess’s wandering glance with a gleam of appreciation. This was intended to isolate him in her memory as a man of discernment and culture worthy of remembrance in the Elysian domain of dining. There is indeed something almost pathetic in this intense concentration of mind, this painful anxiety of appreciation, which is so evidently the tribute to the hostess and not to the new genius himself. Only so much rapture goes to the lecturer as appearances demand. The glory of the occasion belongs to the patron; for skill and talent are largely a matter of labor and discipline, whereas the recognition of excellence is the quick flash of pure intellect, genius! But the audience is charitable enough, and the most terrible ordeal for the lecturer, fresh from Parnassus or Grub Street, is the pervasive and distracting rustling and swishing of silken skirts--a sound that is the most tangible symbol of women’s potent whims in the sensuous consciousness of man. [Illustration]