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Lindsay's company to meet a few friends on the evening of the Feast of St. Ambrose, December 7th, Wednesday. THE PARSONAGE, December 6th. It was the luckiest thing in the world. They always made a little festival of that evening at the Rev. Ambrose Eveleth's, in honor of his canonized namesake, and because they liked to have a good time.
If, on Diane's part, the spontaneity of wedded love had gradually become the adroitness of domestic tact, there was nothing to affirm it but Mrs. Eveleth's own power of divination. If George submitted with a blinder obedience than ever to each new extravagance of Diane's Parisian caprice, there was nothing to show that he lived beyond his means but Mrs. Eveleth's maternal apprehension.
It was the February of a year later before it became a definite necessity no longer to be put off. In the mean while, under the beneficent processes of time, sunshine, and Diane Eveleth's cultivation, Miss Dorothea Pruyn had become a "bud." The small, hard, green thing had unfolded petals whose delicacy, purity, and fragrance were a new contribution to the joy of living.
If Diane listened to these familiar remarks, it was only to take a dull satisfaction in the working of her scheme; but Mrs. Eveleth's next words startled her into sudden attention. "Haven't I heard you say that you knew James van Tromp's nephew, Derek Pruyn?" "I did know him," Diane answered, with a trace of hesitation. "You knew him well?" "Not exactly; it was different from well." "Different?
My visit here is principally on her account." "You must give the rest of us a chance to see something of you during your visit, Mr. Lindsay. I hope you are invited to Miss Eveleth's to-morrow evening?" "Yes, I got a note this morning. Tell me, Mr. Bradshaw, who is there that I shall meet if I go?
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