Suffered in Vain by Bertha M. Clay — Read

Always more or less subdued in tone and tranquil of aspect, the eminently genteel Square of Porchester is, perhaps, seen in its most benign mood in the gently falling shadows of a summer's twilight.

The tall houses begin slowly, very slowly, to twinkle with a glowworm irradiance from the drawing-rooms to the apartments on the upper floors as the darkness increases. From the open windows float the glittering strains of Gounod, Offenbach, Hervé, fluttering down over the flower-wreathed balconies into the silent street beneath, each succession of chords tumbling like so many fairies intoxicated with the spirit of music. At not infrequent intervals, sparkling broughams whirl past, carrying ladies arrayed obviously for dinner-party, soirée, or opera, in gay toilets, only half-concealed by the loose folds of soft wraps.