She raised her eyes languidly. He could not bear to see such abject misery on so young a face.... Young? This girl was younger than Ralph, more than young enough to be his own child. And so alone—and he could help her; he saw, he felt that there was some strong bond of sympathy between them. Without further thought, he almost flung himself down upon the settee at her side. “Suppose I were to see you every day for five days,” he said, with an affectation of amusement, “what good would that do you?” “You shall see,” she said, reviving somewhat; “I promise you, you shall be astonished.” “Pleasantly astonished?” he asked. He determined to treat her in a fatherly, indulgent way, as a spoilt child. “You will see,” she said, nodding her head. “But,”—she seized his hand in hers in a familiar, innocent way which took his breath away for the moment—“you _promise_?” “Promise! What?” he asked, uneasily. Something in the clinging touch of those slender fingers moved him deeply, recalled—what? Sensations long passed and gone, almost forgotten; sensations that stirred his heart to feel the pain of loss. “Promise to accept the invitations you will receive this week,” she said. “But where?” he asked. “Here, to Lady Forwood, to Lady Boisville,” she said. “Nowhere else?” he asked, gazing wonderingly into her upturned eyes. Had there ever been such beautiful dark eyes in this world before? He believed not. In any case, if such existed, he had never seen them. “Nowhere else,” she said, earnestly. “I do not quite understand, but I promise,” he said, rising. “And now _au revoir_, princess.” He bowed low, and hurried away without looking back. He felt shamefaced and guilty: running downstairs more actively than he had run for years past, he came full tilt against the count, who was standing at the foot of the staircase. Bows, apologies. Then the count asked tenderly about the princess. “We may hope, now that you have seen her, that our beautiful lady will be better, docteur,” he said, obsequiously. “But how, how do you find her?” “There is nothing much the matter,” said Hugh, dryly. Then, wondering where the prince was, and how he could “let that fellow come hanging about at all hours,” he hurried out to his carriage. “Where to, sir?” asked the coachman, leaning over as he came up. “Where to? The hospital, of course,” said Hugh, getting into his brougham and pulling the door to. What did Fuller, his coachman, mean? He knew his hours well enough. And what was the matter? He was tapping at the glass. Hugh let down a front window, impatiently. “Did you say to the hospital, sir?” “Of course!” shouted Hugh. “It’s half-past twelve, sir,” said the coachman, reproachfully. Had he not sat on his box wondering what had become of his master for five mortal quarters-of-an hour? “Half-past eleven, you mean!” said Dr. Paull, sternly. For reply, Fuller pulled out a turnip silver watch. “It don’t never vary a second, sir, _it_ don’t,” he said, conclusively.