I suppose I don't dance well enough--or dress well enough," she added, glancing at her friend's gay shawl and coquettish cap.
"He has danced with me twice this evening," said the first speaker triumphantly; "and he danced with me twice last Sunday at the Jardin d'Armide.

Elise says...." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I heard no more.

It was a passing glimpse behind the curtain--a peep at one of the many dramas of real life that are being played for ever around us.

Here were all the elements of romance--love, admiration, vanity, envy.

Here was a hero in humble life--a lady-killer in his own little sphere.