CHAPTER VIII.
It was cooler outside than in Mrs. Harden's music-room. Rondelet made his way to Canal Street, which was full of life and motion. The sidewalks, the corners, the doorways and windows of the houses were crowded with people, the steps and railing of the Clay monument black with masses of humanity. From the first stories of the more important buildings temporary balconies had been thrown out; these were crowded with gayly dressed spectators. Below one of them Philip stopped, and, lost in shadow, stood watching the gay group above him. Fans fluttered, ribbons waved, eyes and jewels sparkled, and the breeze, perfumed as it passed over the garden of fair women, wafted to his ears the mingled sound of light laughter, of jest, of repartee, of whispered protestations, and of answering sighs. Above in the balcony the men and women of the world were taking their pleasure luxuriously; below in the street the world of men and women were taking theirs, not the least part of which was the spectacle of the
