When New Year's Day came with its social gayeties, receptions, and friendly calls, one of Lulu's latest and most surprising visits was from our old friend, Bruce Conway. He had not called on her for a long time, and she had heard that he was in Washington. The warm blood suffused her face as she stood alone in the parlor, with his card in her hand, and it grew rosier as he entered, and with his inimitable, indolent grace, paid the compliments of the season. "You do not ask me where I have been these many days," he said, as he sipped the steaming mocha she offered him in the daintiest of China cups. She never offered her friends wine. "I had heard that you were in Washington," she answered, apologetically. "Right--and what was I doing there? Can you undertake to guess?" "I am sure it is beyond me." This with her most languid air. "Flirting, perhaps." A light smile curves his mustached lip. Certainly this little beauty, he thinks, is "good at guessing." "Have your callers been many to-day?" he asked. "Quite a number of my friends have called--all, I think. I expect no more this evening," she answers, demurely. "I am glad of that. I shall have you all to myself, Lulu--willful, indifferent still, since you will not ask my object in Washington, I will e'en tell you anyhow." "Go on--I am listening." Putting down the cup he had finished, he seated himself on the sofa by her side, good-humoredly taking no notice of the fact that she moved a little farther away from him. "How pretty you are looking, _ma belle_. Your blue silk is the loveliest shade--so becoming; your laces exquisite. Scarlet geraniums in your hair--ah! Lulu, for whose sake?" "Not for yours," she flashes, with a hot remembrance that he has always liked her in scarlet geraniums. A slow smile dawns in his eyes--his lips keep their pretense of gravity. "Her hair is braided not for me, Her eye is turned away." he begins to hum. "All this is not telling me what mischief you were at in Washington?" she interrupts. "Oh," trying to look demure, but woefully failing, "no mischief at all--only paying off old scores--spoiling Fontenay's fun for him as he did for me last winter. "Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do." "Miss Clendenon, you are hard on a poor follow. Why don't you ask _her_ name; if she is pretty; if she is in the 'set;' if she is rich; and so on, _ad infinitum_?" "I hardly care to know," she answers, with pretty unconcern. "Hardly care to know--now, really? I shall tell you anyhow. Well, she is an heiress; is pretty; in her second Washington season; father in the banking business, and Fontenay, despairing of winning you, has transferred his 'young affections' to her. She rather likes him--will marry him, perhaps, but then----" "But then?"