Lord Uxmoor looked up, and knew him. He entered the hotel, and the next minute the waiter ushered him into Vizard's sitting-room. Lord Uxmoor, like Mr. Vizard, was a landed proprietor in Barfordshire. The county is large, and they lived too many miles apart to visit; but they met, and agreed, at elections and county business, and had a respect for each other. Meeting at Frankfort, these two found plenty to say to each other about home; and as Lord Uxmoor was alone, Vizard asked him to dine. “You will balance us,” said he: “we are terribly overpetticoated, and one of them is an old maid. We generally dine at the _table-d'hote,_ but I have ordered dinner _here_ to-day: we are going to the opera at Homburg. You are not obliged to do that, you know. You are in for a bad dinner, that is all.” “To tell the truth,” said Lord Uxmoor, “I don't care for music.” “Then you deserve a statue for not pretending to love it. I adore it, for my part, and I wish I was going alone, for my hens will be sure to cackle _mal 'a propos,_ and spoil some famous melody with talking about it, and who sung it in London, instead of listening to it, and thanking God for it in deep silence.” Lord Uxmoor stared a little at this sudden sally, for he was unacquainted with Vizard's one eccentricity, having met him only on county business, at which he was extra rational, and passed for a great scholar. He really did suck good books as well as cigars. After a few more words, they parted till dinner-time. Lord Uxmoor came to his appointment, and found his host and Miss Maitland, whom he knew; and he was in languid conversation with them, when a side-door opened, and in walked Fanny Dover, fair and bright, in Cambridge blue, her hair well dressed by Zoe's maid in the style of the day. Lord Uxmoor rose, and received his fair country-woman with respectful zeal; he had met her once before. She, too, sparkled with pleasure at meeting a Barfordshire squire with a long pedigree, purse, and beard--three things she admired greatly. In the midst of this, in glided Zoe, and seemed to extinguish everybody, and even to pale the lights, with her dark yet sunlike beauty. She was dressed in a creamy-white satin that glinted like mother-of-pearl, its sheen and glory unfrittered with a single idiotic trimming; on her breast a large diamond cross. Her head was an Athenian sculpture--no chignon, but the tight coils of antiquity; at their side, one diamond star sparkled vivid flame, by its contrast with those polished ebon snakes. Lord Uxmoor was dazzled, transfixed, at the vision, and bowed very low when Vizard introduced him in an off-hand way, saying, “My sister, Miss Vizard; but I dare say you have met her at the county balls.” “I have never been so fortunate,” said Uxmoor, humbly. “I have,” said Zoe; “that is, I saw you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore at the race ball two years ago.” “What!” said Vizard, alarmed. “Uxmoor, were you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore?”