He stood watching the people and amusing himself with cynical speculations until he saw Grant Herman's great figure among the guests. He knew him but slightly and looked at him with an indifference which a couple of hours later he regretted. Herman cared little for the formalities of the occasion, and very likely might have gone away without even being presented to the hostess had not Fred Rangely taken him in charge and brought him safely through that ceremony. Now the sculptor was looking for Mrs. Greyson, of whom he soon caught sight, when he began making his way towards her. She however perceived him, and with the feeling that she could not bear to meet him in public just at this time, she evaded him by slipping into the window where her husband was ensconced. "Take me out of this, please," she said, "I am tired." He gave her his arm without speaking, and together they made their way from the room. "I want to talk to you," he remarked easily. "Mayn't I walk home with you?" When she was ready they went together out into the starlit streets. Neither spoke at first, each carrying on a train of thought to which the other could have no adequate clew. "Who is Arthur's wife?" Dr. Ashton asked at length. "I know she was a Miss Caldwell, that she came from Providence, and that she has been an orphan so short a time that they had a perfectly quiet wedding; but that is the extent of my knowledge. Is she an artist?" "An amateur," answered Helen. "She studied in Paris. He met her there. She is a relative, I forget just how far or near, of Peter Calvin. She seems to me an icicle. Think of Arthur's marrying a _religieuse_!" "What is his game, I wonder," said her companion thoughtfully. "Do you know when she was in Paris? Was it when we were there." "Let me see," Helen responded, with a mental calculation. "Yes; she must have been there the last year we were. Why? Did you ever meet her?" "Perhaps," was the careless reply. They reached Helen's door as he spoke. "Come in," she said. "Fortunately I can make you a salad. It is a long time since we had a _petit souper_ together. I have, too, something to say to you." He followed her to the pretty parlor, and sat idly chatting while she made her preparations for the supper. XX. THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED. Merchant of Venice; iii.--2. It was a dainty little table to which Helen invited her husband when every thing was ready. The china was of odd bits picked up here and there abroad, and it was now disposed with an artist's eye for color and grouping. A tall bottle of Rhine wine had come from some mysterious nook, and beside it were a pair of fine old German glasses, frail as bubbles. "I have always to offer my guests Rhine wine," Helen said, "for I've no glasses for any thing else. Arthur is ungracious enough to object. He does not like white wine as you do."