'Theo——' It was Aaron's voice, and, sensitive to its slightest gradations, she heard in the one word that he was displeased with her. 'Mr. Alston has but newly arrived in New York. It will divert him to have you tell him something of the season in town, the balls and the theater. He will take you in to dinner.'

Her eyes widened. Here was a shattering of precedent. As both hostess and guest of honor tonight, it was fitting that she be escorted by the male guest of highest rank, General Hamilton, Mr. Livingston, or the Count, perhaps. But she was far too well trained to show surprise, and slipped her hand docilely through the arm of the silent young man beside them.

'Indeed, sir, and are you enjoying our city? Is it from the Carolinas that you come? Such a long journey—you must be fatigued'. She eyed him with fresh interest. He seemed a prodigiously dull gentleman, but her father was never wrong, and if he wished to do Mr. Alston unusual honor, he must have a very good reason.

Aaron presented his arm to Mrs. Jay, and they all moved toward the dining-room.

The immense table easily accommodated thirty people. Theo, separated from her father by its whole length, felt his admonishing glance as they took their places.

The table was piled high with platters: turtle soup, boiled lobsters that had come by sloop from Massachusetts, three great oyster patties flanked by immense joints, one of beef, the other of mutton. Between them, like the smaller islands of an archipelago, were dotted stuffed pheasants and ducks. There were vegetables, too: boiled onions, tiny new beets, and roasted potatoes.

The guests helped themselves, with the aid of Alexis and his corps of waiters, who facilitated the process when a desired dainty was too far away to be speared with one of the serving forks. This being a formal occasion, individual forks had been provided, but most of the company scorned this French refinement and conveyed food on an expertly piled knife.

Theo made conversation with Mr. Alston, using all her tact to draw him out as her father's look demanded. It was not easy. His responses were slow and ponderous, so that her quick brain had traveled yards ahead of him before he had finished.

Irénée du Pont sat on her left, and from time to time she turned to him thankfully, enjoying both the grace of his sparkling French and the pleasure that her own proficiency in the language gave her.

The party was nearly bilingual, and conversation, led from the center by Natalie and the Comte de Joliette, gradually changed into French. They were all talking glibly until Theo saw her father frown. She started, realizing that Mr. Alston sat heavily silent beside her, sipping his claret with an expression of sulky annoyance.

'You perhaps do not speak French?' she faltered.