lusty, animal eyes. The artist had caught her spirit quite
accurately, the dash, the assumption, the bravado based on the
courage of inexperience, or lack of true subtlety. A refreshing
thing in its way, a little showy, as everything that related to
her was, and inclined to arouse jealousy in those not so liberally
endowed by life, but fine as a character piece. In the warm glow
of the guttered gas-jets she looked particularly brilliant here,
pampered, idle, jaunty--the well-kept, stall-fed pet of the world.
Many stopped to see, and many were the comments, private and
otherwise.

This day began with a flurry of uncertainty and worried anticipation
on the part of Aileen. At Cowperwood's suggestion she had employed
a social secretary, a poor hack of a girl, who had sent out all
the letters, tabulated the replies, run errands, and advised on
one detail and another. Fadette, her French maid, was in the
throes of preparing for two toilets which would have to be made
this day, one by two o'clock at least, another between six and
eight. Her "mon dieus" and "par bleus" could be heard continuously
as she hunted for some article of dress or polished an ornament,
buckle, or pin. The struggle of Aileen to be perfect was, as
usual, severe. Her meditations, as to the most becoming gown to
wear were trying. Her portrait was on the east wall in the
art-gallery, a spur to emulation; she felt as though all society
were about to judge her. Theresa Donovan, the local dressmaker,
had given some advice; but Aileen decided on a heavy brown velvet
constructed by Worth, of Paris--a thing of varying aspects, showing
her neck and arms to perfection, and composing charmingly with her
flesh and hair. She tried amethyst ear-rings and changed to topaz;
she stockinged her legs in brown silk, and her feet were shod in