Lady Boisville’s house was well known. Its tapestries, picture-gallery, and new French ball-room were much talked of in society. When Dr. Paull arrived, the picture-gallery was already nearly filled by a brilliant crowd who were seated or standing about in groups, awaiting the young French prince. Hugh took up his position in the background. He had been forced into this gathering, he determined to remain a spectator of the interesting living picture as much as possible. At first it seemed as if his intention would be fulfilled. The concert began. Celebrated Italian singers warbled delicious music. The ladies smiled and fluttered their fans. The men conversed in snatches between the pieces, while the Boisville ancestors frowned darkly or smiled blankly from among the celebrated black canvases of the old Dutch painters or the gay Canalettis for which the Boisville collection was famous. One or two men he knew, the most celebrated portrait painter of the day, two of the foremost members of the Cabinet, and the physician dearest to reigning royalty, came up and talked with him. All seemed surprised to see him. One of the statesmen, a man of constitutional vigour and renowned for his honest joviality, told him he was taking a step in the right direction. “You preach at your patients not to shut themselves up,” he said. “But hitherto you have not followed your own prescription.” Just after that the portrait painter came up to him. “I have just seen the loveliest woman in the world,” he said, enthusiastically; “and Lady Boisville tells me you are her doctor. Lucky fellow!” And forthwith he questioned Hugh with what Dr. Paull considered execrable taste, until at last he made some excuse and came out of his corner to avoid the man. Then he saw Mercedes, an exquisite picture in some silvery gossamer stuff, with pearls round her girlish throat and a long trail of lilies from her beautiful shoulder to the hem of her dress. Her large eyes were travelling restlessly from face to face, her lips were apart, she was nervously playing with her fan, yet the French prince was talking to her, and in the knot of people around them were some of the celebrities of the day. Their eyes met, her face lit up with pleasure, his heart seemed to swell with some emotion. He was touched, yet was angry with himself for being so. “I suppose I must speak to her,” he told himself; “but that must suffice. After that, I go home.” He waited until the French prince moved away, then went up to her and asked her how she was. “Very well, _now_,” she said. “Not before, for you had not come.” “I have been here all the evening,” said Hugh, as coolly as he could, for her sweet face lifted to his actually stirred his steady pulses, and he rebelled against these new, involuntary sensations. “I must go, now. Good-bye! I am glad you are looking so well.” “You will stay? Just a little while?” she pleaded. “I am sorry that I cannot possibly do so,” he said. “My time is not my own.”