A young man was playing the banjo. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. ” He replied.
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