As a partner now took away my little Southern friend, I caught Chinic on the wing, got introduced once more, and found myself careering in a galop down the room with a large-looking girl--Mlle. Sylphe--whose activity was out of proportion to her figure, though in more harmony with her name. Her build was commanding, she was of dark complexion and hair, in manner demure, alluring with great power by the instrumentality of lustrous eyes, though secretly, I felt, like the tigress itself in cruelty to her victims. She was a magnificent figure, and gave me a merry dance. After it, she set about explaining the meaning of her garland decorations and the language of flowers, the Convent school at Sault-au-Recollet, dinner parties, and the young men of her acquaintance. "You seem very fond of society?" I advanced. "I adore society--it is my dream. I waltz, you see. I know it is wrong, and the church forbids it; but--I do not dance in Lent. After all," shrugging her shoulders, "we can confess, you know, and when we are old it will suffice to repent and be devout. I shall begin to be excessively devout," (toying with a jet cross on her necklace)--"the day I find my first grey hair." "You have then a number of years to waltz." Her dark eyes looked over my face as a possible conquest. "I tremble when I think it is not for ever. But look at my aunt's and that of Madame de Rheims!" These ladies were indeed distinguished by their hair; but I suspect that it was not the mere fact of its greyness to which she wished to draw my attention--rather it was to the manner in which they wore it, brushed up high and away from their foreheads, like dowagers of yore. Standing in a corner together very much each other's counterpart, both a trifle too dignified, they were obviously proud leaders of society. She watched my shades of expression, and cried: "There is my favorite quadrille--La la-la-la-la-la-a-la," softly humming and nodding her head, an action not common among the English. "Pardon me, sir, your name is Mr. 'Aviland, I believe," interrupted a young man with a close-cut, very thick, very black beard, and the waxed ends of his moustache fiercely turned up. I bowed. "Our Sovereign Lady De Rheims requests the pleasure of your conversation." On turning to Mlle. Sylphe to make my excuses, she smiled, saying with a regretful grimace: "Obeissez." Mde. De Rheims stood with Mde. Fee, the aunt of Mile. Sylphe, near the musicians, receiving and surveying her subjects,--a woman of majestic presence. Nodding dismissal to the fierce moustache, she acknowledged my deep bow with a slight but gracious inclination.