All this came from Miss Spicer, who entered into the subject with spirit and imagination enough to have given sensation for a first-class novel. So Mrs. Lambert, sitting still in her shaded boudoir, regulated society as she had done for years, without apparent effort; in fact, caring very little about it, except on this especial occasion, when she felt a nervous satisfaction in being the unknown fairy who turned the whole fashionable world into Mrs. Carter’s saloons. The night came at last, and Mrs. Laurence’s humble parlor was not the only one in which anxious and beautiful women were adorning themselves before their mirrors, though it was doubtful if one so small as that hanging between those parlor windows was consulted during the evening; or if the loftiest and broadest gave back a figure of more perfect loveliness. Mrs. Lambert stood in her dressing-room, radiant with jewels, pallid with nervous excitement. She was still a beautiful woman; her mirror reflected that and more, it revealed the faint shiver of her hands, the anxious fire in her eyes, the swell and contraction of her white throat, under its diamond necklace. Ellen, her maid, had never seen her so strangely restless before; she turned her eyes imploringly on the girl, and besought her to say honestly if she looked so old as nine-and-thirty. The maid clasped her hands. “Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Lambert, you do not look it by ten years.” The proud woman smiled, and touched the girl’s shoulder caressingly, for the first time in her life. “Look again, Ellen; can you see no lines on my forehead, no contraction here at my throat?” “Nothing of the kind; if they were there, I should, the diamonds light them up so.” “And my hair. Ah! Ellen, I see threads of white.” “That is because you are looking for them; besides, your hair is so glossy and black, the least thing shows. A dust of powder, now?” “No, no, no! He detests—— You ought to remember that I detest powder. Take the jewels out of my hair, they kindle up every defect. My dress, too, looks presumptuously youthful.” “Youthful, why not? There will be no young lady at the party half so beautiful. Besides, this shade of mauve is neither old nor young, so delicate and rich; just a glimpse of blue, with a faint blush of roses breaking out, as the dress-maker said, when it came home, ‘something for point lace flounces to tell upon,’ says she, ‘satin thick as a board, sweeping so majestic, with the lace floating over like—like mist.’ That is what _she_ said, but then, of course, you know best, ma’am—nobody ever had so much taste.” Mrs. Lambert was not listening, but unclasped her bracelets, and took off her necklace with an air of disgust. “One would think I intended to dazzle the crowd,” she muttered, “as if such things could do it.” “Oh, madam! you are spoiling everything.” Mrs. Lambert looked at herself drearily in the glass, her dress had lost it brilliancy—she seemed growing older.