“Then I suppose I must now repeat my answer all over again, for the benefit of your blue-book?” “Certainly, if Your Excellency sees no reason against it—that is what is required.” “Well, I suppose I must let you have it;” and so I have to give up another hour to him just for the sake of the blue-book, and have in addition constantly to explain to the English ambassador: “_This_ sentence is _not_ meant for your blue-book,” as, for instance, that I look upon the blue-book as an essentially wordy and superfluous institution.’ But it is past eleven. Gradually the numerous guests take their leave of the Chancellor. He bids them all ‘Adieu, au revoir.’ Then passing through the apartment where his wife and daughters were seated, surrounded by a large circle of friends, we salute our noble hostess; and a quarter of an hour later sees us back at the _Petersburger Hof_, comfortably ensconced in the saloon of our hotel, and discussing the events of the evening under the soothing influence of the peaceful pipe. FOOTNOTES: [1] A cool summer drink or cup, made of Rhine wine, in which the herb _Waldmeister_ plays a prominent part. IN ALL SHADES. CHAPTER III. ‘O Marian, do you know, I’ve met Mr Hawthorn; and what a delightful man he is! I quite fell in love with him myself, I assure you! Wasn’t it absurd? He came down the other morning to the boatrace; and he and a friend of his positively jumped over the wall, without an invitation, into old Colonel Boddington’s front garden.’ Marian took Nora’s hand warmly. ‘I’m so glad you like Edward,’ she said, kissing her cheek and smoothing her forehead. ‘I was sure you’d like him. I’ve been longing for you to come to town ever since we got engaged, so that you might manage to see him.—Well, dear, and do you think him handsome?’ ‘Handsome! O Marian, awfully handsome; and so nice, too. Such a sweet voice and manner, so grave and cultivated, somehow. I always do like Oxford and Cambridge men—ever so much better than army men, Marian.’ ‘Who had he with him at the boatrace?’ Marian asked. ‘Oh, my dear, such a funny man—a Mr Noel, whom I met last week down at the Buckleburies. Colonel Boddington says his father’s one of the greatest swells in all Lincolnshire—a Sir Somebody Noel, or something. And do you know, Marian, he simply jumped over the wall, without knowing the Boddingtons one bit, just because he saw me there—wasn’t it dreadful of him, after only meeting me once, too?—and then apologised to the old colonel, who was looking daggers. But the moment Mr Noel said something or other incidentally about his father Sir Somebody, the colonel became as mild as a lamb, and asked him to lunch at once, and tried to put him sitting right between Minnie and Adela. And Mr Noel managed to shuffle out of it somehow, and got on one side of me, with Mr Hawthorn on the other side; and he talked so that he kept me laughing right through the whole of lunch-time.’