It was within thirty minutes of nine o'clock, the hour I had fixed for
going. A howling winter out of doors, a clear fire glowing in my little
grate. My arm-chair, a magnificent present from Honoria, shaming the
wooden fixtures of the poor room, invited to meditation, and perhaps the
composition of some delicate periods. They formed slowly. Time, it is
said, devours all things; but imagination, in turn, devours time,--and,
indeed, swallowed my half-hour at a gulp. The neighboring church-clock
tolled nine. I was belated, and hurried away.
It was a _reunion_ of only three hundred invitations, selected by my
friend Dalton, the intimate and adviser of Honoria. So happy were their
combinations, scarce a dozen were absent or declined.
At eleven, the guests began to assemble. Introductions were almost
needless. Each person was a recognized member of "society." One-half of
the number were women,--many of them young, beautiful, accomplished,--
heiresses, "charming widows," poetesses of real celebrity, and, rarer
still, of good repute,--wives of millionnaires, flashing in satin and
diamonds. The men, on their side, were of all professions and arts, and of
every grade of celebrity, from senator to merchant,--each distinguished by
some personal attribute or talent; and in all was the gift, so rare, of
manners and conversation.
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