The Plumers were at Bunker's. The gay, good-hearted Grace, full of fun and flirtation, vowed that New York was life, and all the rest of the world death.

"You do not compliment the South very much," said Sligo Moultrie, smiling.

"Oh no! The South is home, and we don't compliment relations, you know,"

returned Miss Grace.

"Yes, thank Heaven! the South _is_ home, Miss Grace. New York is like a foreign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all.

It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a trading town."

"Then I like trading towns, if that is it," returned Miss Grace, looking out into the bustling street.

Mr. Moultrie smiled--a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplished smile.

He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense of superiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner--a languid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of his person, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsome face, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and when all the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating.

He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an active nature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague idea that every Southern youth was _ex-officio_ a Croesus. Scion of a fine old family, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. Sligo Moultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintain his state.

Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, had bright black eyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearly teeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, who believed with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was very shrewd and very kindly also.

Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the window with Grace Plumer.

"The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?" said he.

"Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they're having of it. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here; but it is a little lonely, isn't it, Mr. Moultrie?"

Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an arch interrogatory at her companion.

"Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up to town and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we are at home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal--he ought not to be a vagabond."

"Thank you," said Grace, bowing mockingly.

"I said 'a man,' you observe, Miss Grace."

"Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie."

"In two cases--yes."

"What are they?"

"When he holds her in his arms or in his heart."

Here was a sudden volley masked in music. Grace Plumer was charmed. She looked at her companion. He had been "a vagabond" all winter in New York; but there were few more presentable men. Moreover, she felt at home with him as a _compatriot_. Yes, this would do very well.

Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie as first flirter in her corps, when a face she remembered looked up at the window from the street, more dangerous even than when she had seen it in the spring. It was the face of Abel Newt, who raised his hat and bowed to her with an admiration which he concealed that he took care to show.

The next moment he was in the room, perfectly _comme il faut_, sparkling, resistless.

"My dear Miss Plumer, I knew spring was coming. I felt it as I approached Bunker's. I said to Herbert Octoyne (he's off with the Shrimp; Papa Shrimp was too much, he was so old that he was rank)--I said, either I smell the grass sprouting in the Battery or I have a sensation of spring.

I raise my eyes--I see that it is not grass, but flowers. I recognize the dear, delicious spring. I bow to Miss Plumer."

He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, except that the manner made it seem persiflage, and therefore allowable.

Grace Plumer blushed, bowed, smiled, and met his offered hand half-way.

Abel Newt knew perfectly what he was doing, and raised it respectfully, bowed over it, kissed it.

"Moultrie, glad to see you. Miss Plumer, 'tis astonishing how this man always knows the pleasant places. If I want to know where the best fruits and the earliest flowers are, I ask Sligo Moultrie."

Mr. Moultrie bowed.

"The first rose of the year blooms in Mr. Moultrie's button-hole,"

continued Abel, who galloped on, laughing, and seating himself upon an ottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of Grace Plumer's.

She smiled, and joined the hunt.

"He talks nothing but 'ladies' delights,'" said she.

"Yes--two other things, please, Miss Grace," said Moultrie.

"What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases? You always have two more."

"Better two more than too much," struck in Abel, who saw that Miss Plumer had put out her darling little foot from beneath her dress, and therefore had fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not lost upon the lady.

"Heavens!" cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. "You are both two more and too much for me."

"Good, good, good for Moultrie!" applauded Abel; "and now, Miss Plumer, I submit that he has the floor."

"Very well, Mr. Moultrie. What are the two other things that you talk?"

"Pansies and rosemary," said the young man, rising and bowing himself out.

"Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who was never so brilliant in his life before. How generous in you to rise and shine on this wretched town! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon it like dew. Where have you been?"

"At home, in Louisiana."

"Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle--I have never been there; but it comes to me here when you come, Miss Plumer."

Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity.

"And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentleman of whom I have heard most this winter."

"What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?"

"You have no enemies," replied she, "except, perhaps--no, I'll not mention them."

"Who? who? I insist," said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer earnestly for a moment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and very be-ringed white hands, where the eyes lingered a little and worshipped in the most evident manner.

"Except, then, your own sex," said the little Louisianian, half blushing.

"I do them no harm," replied Abel.