Slender, lithe, and graceful as a young palm-tree, with the daintiest patrician hands and feet, piquant features, rose-leaf complexion, a cloud of scented dark hair, and a tempting mouth like a rare, red flower, her eyes alone would have made her lovely without the aid of other charms. They were large, almond-shaped, and luminous. In the shadow they were gray as doves’ wings, in the sunlight blue as ocean’s deeps, at night they were dark like the sky, and flashing like the stars, so that it dazzled you to look at them beneath the thick fringe of the long black lashes. Then her voice, it was so sweet and low, and her laugh so musical, how could any man help but adore? When she was presented in society there was no one to equal her in grace and charm. Women wondered and envied, men raved and adored. She could have her pick and choice of them all from the multi-millionaire, the gallant soldier, the haughty diplomat, down to the gilded youth who aimed to be the glass of fashion and the mold of form. All alike were Viola Van Lew’s slaves. And the lovely, thoughtless creature, trained by indiscreet advisers to regard all this as simply her due, flirted demurely while immensely enjoying her conquests, as what fair maiden of eighteen would not, when launched on the glittering, effervescent sea of official life in Washington? The first man that ever touched her heart was Florian Gay, a handsome, dashing young fellow of the cavalier type who would have become a great artist if he had not been very rich. He had the divine afflatus, but lacked the incentive to work that poverty confers on the child of genius. Owning a handsome studio on a fashionable street, he trifled with art in a _dilettante_ way, and devoted the most of his time to society. He met Viola at a reception, and in due course of time, to quote an envious rival, “his scalp dangled, with dozens of others, at her belt.” In return he caught her fancy, and the flirtation became pronounced. In it she found a spice of delicious tenderness, a subtle attraction that she took for love. He begged to paint Viola’s portrait, and accompanied by her chaperon--a good-natured old aunt--she gave him several sittings. Before the end of the sittings they became engaged, though Florian secretly chafed at the secrecy she imposed. “I should like to ask your father and make it public, so that those other fellows--confound them!--would quit dangling after you,” he said, betraying a spice of jealousy inherent in his nature. But Viola put aside his entreaties. “I like to have them dangling after me, as you call it,” she cried, laughingly. “I like to be admired, and when I am married I wish to be able to say that I had first refused a hundred suitors.” He could not help crying: “Heavens, what idle vanity! Have you no mercy on the men, Viola?” “Oh, it does not hurt. They soon go away and forget,” she replied, lightly.