—or Mr. Bayly, that laureate of the butterflies, has some new song. Then there are flowers to be painted on velvet—the new romance to be read—or some invention of novel embellishment to be discussed with your Mlle. Jacinthe, Hyacinthe, or whatever poetic name may euphoniously designate your Parisian priestess of the mirror.
"Luncheon and loungers come in together—a little news and a little nonsense—and then you wonder at its being so late. The carriage and the cachemere are in waiting—you have been most fortunate in the arrangement of your hat—never did flowers wave more naturally or plumes fall more gracefully. Your milliner has just solicited your attention to some triumph of genius—you want a new clasp to your bracelet—
'Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!'
Complexion and constitution are alike revived by a drive in the Park—a white glove rests on the carriage window—and some 'gallant gray' or chestnut Arabian is curbed into curvets and foam by its whispering master.
"I will allow you to dream away the dinner-
