Hilda in the doorway on the arm of her white Mousquetaire. Lady Hilda was beyond all dispute the most beautiful woman of the rooms, she threw them all into the shade as a rose diamond throws stars of strass; and many of the men were so dazzled by her appearance there, that they actually lost the sight of Madame Mila's rose-coloured stockings twinkling in the air.
"Paolo fait bonne fortune," they said to one another, and began to make wagers that she would marry him, or, on the other hand, that she was only playing with him: opinion varied, and bets ran high.
Society bets on everything—peace and love, and honour and happiness, are only "staying" horses or "non-stayers," on whose running the money is piled. It is fortunate indeed and rare when the betting is "honest," and if the drinking waters of peace be not poisoned on purpose, or the smooth turf of a favourite's career be not sprinkled with glass, by those who have laid the odds heavily against it. So that they land their bets, what do they care whether or no the subject of their speculations be lamed for life and
