pillows, all at sweet enmity with insomnia. The ornaments were few but
pleasing to the eye. Art and her hand-maiden, Good Taste, had decorated
the walls. But there was a table, best of all, covered with good books,
and before it, drawn in place, an easy-chair. An exquisite china lamp,
with yellow shade, shed all the light that was needed. Everywhere there
were feminine signs--touches that were delightful and unmistakable.

From somewhere there came a rich oriental odor. It intoxicated me with its
subtle perfume. I picked up "After-Dinner Stories" (Balzac), then a
translation from Alfred de Musset, an old novel by Wilkie Collins, "The
Guilty River;" but still that mysterious perfume pervaded my senses and
unfitted me for the otherwise tempting feast spread before me. I looked at
the clock; it was nine thirty. I turned again to the table, and carelessly
reached out for a pair of dainty, pale tan-colored gloves. Then I seized
them eagerly and brushed them against my face; I had found the odor. The
gloves were perfumed. They had been worn for the first time to the
reception, and had been thrown there into a plate of costly percelain, to
await her ladyship's pleasure and do further and final service at the
ball. They bore the imprint of her dainty fingers, and they were hardly
cold from the touch and the warmth of her pretty white hands. They
seemed, as they rested there, like something human; and if they had
reached out toward me, or even spoken a word of explanation regarding
their highly perfumed selves, I should indeed have been delighted, but
neither surprised nor dismayed.

But while the gloves did not speak, did not move, something else made mute
appeal. Tossed into that same beautiful plate, hidden at first by the
gloves, was a bunch, a very small bunch of Russian violets. Evidently they
had been worn to the reception, and while I was wondering if she would
wear them to the ball I heard a light step, the rustle of silken skirts,