``The beauty in white?''

``Yes, the beauty in white,'' softly
echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He
leaned forward and with eager eyes
gazed in admiration at the new-comer.
He seemed hypnotized by the vision,
which moved slowly from between the
blue-tinted portieres and stood for the
instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant
womanhood, silhouetted against the
silken drapery.

``That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred
Wallace, only child of one of New
York's prominent bankers.''

``She is beautiful--a queen by divine
right,'' cried he, and then with a mingling
of impetuosity and importunity,
entreated his hostess to present him.

And thus they met.

Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were
celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions
one always heard the best singers
and players of the season, and Epicurus'
soul could rest in peace, for her chef had