The appearance of a bouquet on the table of Mrs. Hopkinson was no rare event; nevertheless, Mr. Gashwiler's was not there. Its hideous contrasts had offended her woman's eye,--it is observable that good taste survives the wreck of all the other feminine virtues,--and she had distributed it to make boutonnieres for other gentlemen. Yet, when he appeared, she said to him hastily, putting her little hand over the cardiac region: “I'm so glad you came. But you gave me SUCH a fright an hour ago.” Mr. Gashwiler was both pleased and astounded. “What have I done, my dear Mrs. Hopkinson?” he began. “Oh, don't talk,” she said sadly. “What have you done, indeed! Why, you sent me that beautiful bouquet. I could not mistake your taste in the arrangement of the flowers;--but my husband was here. You know his jealousy. I was obliged to conceal it from him. Never--promise me now--NEVER do it again.” Mr. Gashwiler gallantly protested. “No! I am serious! I was so agitated: he must have seen me blush.” Nothing but the gross flattery to this speech could have clouded its manifest absurdity to the Gashwiler consciousness. But Mr. Gashwiler had already succumbed to the girlish half-timidity with which it was uttered. Nevertheless, he could not help saying: “But why should he be so jealous now? Only day before yesterday I saw Simpson of Duluth hand you a nosegay right before him!” “Ah,” returned the lady, “he was outwardly calm THEN, but you know nothing of the scene that occurred between us after you left.” “But,” gasped the practical Gashwiler, “Simpson had given your husband that contract,--a cool fifty thousand in his pocket!” Mrs. Hopkinson looked as dignifiedly at Gashwiler as was consistent with five feet three (the extra three inches being a pyramidal structure of straw-colored hair), a frond of faint curls, a pair of laughing blue eyes, and a small belted waist. Then she said, with a casting down of her lids: “You forget that my husband loves me.” And for once the minx appeared to look penitent. It was becoming; but as it had been originally practiced in a simple white dress, relieved only with pale-blue ribbons, it was not entirely in keeping with be-flounced lavender and rose-colored trimmings. Yet the woman who hesitates between her moral expression and the harmony of her dress is lost. And Mrs. Hopkinson was victrix by her very audacity. Mr. Gashwiler was flattered. The most dissolute man likes the appearance of virtue. “But graces and accomplishments like yours, dear Mrs. Hopkinson,” he said oleaginously, “belong to the whole country.” Which, with something between a courtesy and a strut, he endeavored to represent. “And I shall want to avail myself of all,” he added, “in the matter of the Castro claim. A little supper at Welcker's, a glass or two of champagne, and a single flash of those bright eyes, and the thing is done.”