“Never, till now,” said Mercedes, still scrutinising him with a feeling of uneasiness, for she felt that this worn-looking but attractive man, with the prematurely white hair, was no stranger to her, yet she could not recall how or when she had seen him. “I have lived seven—no, eight years in the convent at B——. That is where mammy and I were together” (with an affectionate look towards her friend); “but to London I came—not—once! When I returned to Spain, we went by Newhaven. This is the first time I see—London.” “Curious!” said Hugh, half to himself. The resemblance to someone he had known was stronger while she was speaking, and yet there was nothing definite about it. It stirred him strangely; but what the emotion was which disturbed him and quickened his ordinarily sluggish pulses, he could not tell. “Were you ever in Surrey?” he suggested, after a few minutes’ fruitless mental searching. “Never in any place here but the convent,” she said, decidedly. “But you, sir. Perhaps you were in B—— sometime?” “Never,” said Hugh. “Then you have, perhaps, been in my country—in Spain?” “Not yet,” said Hugh. They both smiled; and then, suddenly remembering that they were strangers, talked more reservedly of the music, which the princess appeared to know well. “I had the pianoforte score for a week,” she informed Dr. Paull. “The composer lent me his manuscript. I played it for him when he was in Madrid.” She was telling Hugh of what was to come during the ensuing acts, when the box-door opened, and the count came in. “The prince requested me to escort you home at the end of the act, madame la princesse,” he said in English, bowing very slightly to Dr. Paull. “But my husband? Where is he, monsieur?” The count shrugged his shoulders, with an appealing smile, to Lady Forwood. “He must go to the club for an hour, madame. When you arrive at the house, he will without doubt be there.” Mercedes sat silent till the close of the act, then she rose abruptly, held out her hand to Lady Forwood, said “Adieu, monsieur,” with a melancholy little smile, to Hugh, and left the box on the count’s arm. “Well?” said Lady Forwood, eagerly, when the two were alone. “Well?” he repeated, coolly. Some glamour, under the influence of which he had unbent—had forgotten his ordinary almost apathy to his surroundings—had passed away. He was on guard again. “Tell me frankly what you think of her. I love her so much!” said Lady Forwood, eagerly and honestly. “There is nothing the matter with her—physically,” said Hugh. “But—mentally?” “As I told her husband, I do not profess to cure the mind.”