“I confess I like to be bewitched,” said the prince, “and I do not care how much the world is disturbed.” “But is not the world very well as it is?” said Lady Roehampton. “Why should we not be happy and enjoy it?” “I do enjoy it,” replied Prince Florestan, “especially at Montfort Castle; I suppose there is something in the air that agrees with one. But enjoyment of the present is consistent with objects for the future.” “Ah! now you are thinking of your great affairs--of your kingdom. My woman’s brain is not equal to that.” “I think your brain is quite equal to kingdoms,” said the prince, with a serious expression, and speaking in even a lower voice, “but I was not thinking of my kingdom. I leave that to fate; I believe it is destined to be mine, and therefore occasions me thought but not anxiety. I was thinking of something else than kingdoms, and of which unhappily I am not so certain--of which I am most uncertain--of which I fear I have no chance--and yet which is dearer to me than even my crown.” “What can that be?” said Lady Roehampton, with unaffected wonderment. “‘Tis a secret of chivalry,” said Prince Florestan, “and I must never disclose it.” “It is a wonderful scene,” said Adriana Neuchatel to Endymion, who had been for some time conversing with her. “I had no idea that I should be so much amused by anything in society. But then, it is so unlike anything one has ever seen.” Mrs. Neuchatel had not accompanied her husband and her daughter to the Montfort Tournament. Mr. Neuchatel required a long holiday, and after the tournament he was to take Adriana to Scotland. Mrs. Neuchatel shut herself up at Hainault, which it seemed she had never enjoyed before. She could hardly believe it was the same place, freed from its daily invasions by the House of Commons and the Stock Exchange. She had never lived so long without seeing an ambassador or a cabinet minister, and it was quite a relief. She wandered in the gardens, and drove her pony-chair in forest glades. She missed Adriana very much, and for a few days always expected her to enter the room when the door opened; and then she sighed, and then she flew to her easel, or buried herself in some sublime cantata of her favourite master, Beethoven. Then came the most wonderful performance of the whole day, and that was the letter, never missed, to Adriana. Considering that she lived in solitude, and in a spot with which her daughter was quite familiar, it was really marvellous that the mother should every day be able to fill so many interesting and impassioned pages. But Mrs. Neuchatel was a fine penwoman; her feelings were her facts, and her ingenious observations of art and nature were her news. After the first fever of separation, reading was always a resource to her, for she was a great student. She was surrounded by all the literary journals and choice publications of Europe, and there scarcely was a branch of science and learning with