“Precisely so,” said the perfumed little marquise, “but monsieur is jealous, for my Yankee _is_ very handsome, but disdainful, _à briser le coeur_—Monsieur D’Arcy.” “D’Arcy,” exclaimed Evelyn, “I expect him here to-night. Madame de Villiers has requested permission to present him, and——” At this moment the folding doors were thrown open, and a charming and aristocratic looking elderly lady, richly but simply attired, entered leaning on the arm of a gentleman, whom she presented with much _empressement_ to the lady of the house. “Talk of his Satanic Majesty,” whispered the Englishman, while a smile might be perceived on more than one pair of rosy lips, as the unconscious object of all this _persiflage_ advanced into the charmed circle and gracefully paid his _devoirs_ to its presiding genius. Philip D’Arcy was one of those rarely endowed beings who, at first sight, impress you with a sense of power—you feel you are in the presence of one born to command. Where this moral force is combined with magnetic influence, or odic affinity, if you please so to term that irresistible attraction we all have felt, more or less at times, then the fascination of such a being is irresistible. He can draw you according to the degree of your sensitive nature, into his sphere, as into a vortex. Nor can you escape.—Fatal gift, if dissevered from heart and principle! Mr. D’Arcy may have been about thirty; slightly above the medium stature, his erect and lofty bearing gave the idea of greater height than he actually possessed. But for this too—the extreme delicacy of his form, (a defect common to the transatlantic race of the Northern States), might perhaps, have been considered as somewhat detracting from the manliness of his appearance. To say that the features were chiselled, were little. Intellect sat enthroned on the regal brow, and the deep-set eyes—calm, blue, and unfathomable as the ocean—seemed the fitting mirror of “the human soul divine.” The lips firmly closed, pale, and somewhat severe in their habitual expression, could, nevertheless, occasionally wear a smile of rare beauty. The complexion, white as Parian marble, harmonized well with the crisply curling locks, and the full beard, of that cold, brown tint, which almost universally accompanies the refined style of male beauty. Mr. D’Arcy engaged Evelyn in that light conversation which, _well talked_, has so much charm, and beneath which occasionally runs a vein of the deepest sentiment or the richest humor. But the _tête-à-tête_ was not of long duration.