A number of old friends and acquaintances quickly surrounded the noble hostess, while the remainder of the guests streamed on towards the billiard-room to the right, the windows of which look out on the street. In front of one of the sofas lies a handsome bearskin—the animal was slain by Bismarck’s own hand; and on a bracket stands the magnificent vase, with the king’s portrait and a view of his castle, which King William presented to the Prince after the wars of 1866. The crowd and the heat increased every moment. The Prince, we were told, was in the big saloon. Hurrying thither, we saw our noble host, standing just inside the door, in animated converse with some earlier arrivals, yet, notwithstanding, quite ready to greet every new-comer—sometimes even stretching out both hands to right and left with hearty welcome. How well and bright he looked! That was always the first thing that struck one on seeing this man. His face, from his long country sojourn at Varzin, has regained its healthy colouring; the eyes are no longer so deeply shadowed by the overhanging brows or the furrowed forehead of last year; his hair is of that light Saxon hue which defies both Time and impertinent curiosity; and the figure is as firm and upright as the youngest man there present. On this evening he also wore his favourite and most comfortable dress—that is, uniform, but _not_ in strict accordance with Regulation. Moltke’s fine thin lips are curved with an amused smile, as he observes the Prince’s unmilitary get-up. The short smart tunic is worn open, innocent of either sword or sword-belt, displaying an ordinary black cloth evening waistcoat underneath. Only the most necessary orders are worn; among them, some of those of the smaller states peep coquettishly forth. Are these meant to fascinate the hearts of the minor invited deputies?