It is now our privilege to be introduced to the interior, and we
make good use of our opportunity while mingling with its guests.

On this clear wintry evening as we are ushered into the Verne
drawing-room with its beautifully-frescoed wall and rare painting a
pretty sight is presented to our view. Seated at the piano is
Marguerite, who is singing a quaint little ballad for the benefit of
a company of children gathered at her feet. She is evidently their
queen, as the sly glances at the happy-faced maiden are ever
increasing to be repaid by the sweetest of smiles. Evelyn Verne
appeared in a heavy garnet silk with bodice and draperies of the
same shade in velvet. Her elbow sleeves reveal arms that would
rival in miniature those of the master-piece of Phidias--the
Pallas Athena--which graced the Parthenon in by-gone ages.
Her hair, of purplish blackness, gives effect to the creamy tints
of her complexion, and heightens the damask tinge of the
beautifully-rounded cheeks. One glance at this magnificent looking
form and you are victimized by her charms; you cast a side glance
towards the childish-looking girl at the piano, and you will only
pronounce her passing fair. Beauty is beauty, and will charm while
the world goes on, and while we are endowed with that sense which,
in general, has outweighed all others; but in most cases we are,
in the end, taught that the beauty of the soul will wear until time
is no more, and the beauty that fades is a thing of the past!

"Evelyn, dearest, if Paris had now to decide between the goddesses,
he certainly would have awarded you the golden apple," exclaimed the
first muse, who never let an opportunity slip to display her
knowledge of mythology.