Rose went round the table to her little cousin Alec, aged seven, kissed his reluctant cheek, and sat beside him, announcing a sea appetite and great capabilities, while Evan silently broke bread. The Count de Saldar, a diminutive tawny man, just a head and neck above the tablecloth, sat sipping chocolate and fingering dry toast, which he would now and then dip in jelly, and suck with placidity, in the intervals of a curt exchange of French with the wife of the Hon. Melville, a ringleted English lady, or of Portuguese with the Countess; who likewise sipped chocolate and fingered dry toast, and was mournfully melodious. The Hon. Melville, as became a tall islander, carved beef, and ate of it, like a ruler of men. Beautiful to see was the compassionate sympathy of the Countess’s face when Rose offered her plate for a portion of the world-subjugating viand, as who should say: “Sweet child! thou knowest not yet of sorrows, thou canst ballast thy stomach with beef!” In any other than an heiress, she would probably have thought: “This is indeed a disgusting little animal, and most unfeminine conduct!” Rose, unconscious of praise or blame, rivalled her uncle in enjoyment of the fare, and talked of her delight in seeing England again, and anything that belonged to her native land. Mrs. Melville perceived that it pained the refugee Countess, and gave her the glance intelligible; but the Countess never missed glances, or failed to interpret them. She said: “Let her. I love to hear the sweet child’s prattle.” “It was fortunate” (she addressed the diplomatist) “that we touched at Southampton and procured fresh provision!” “Very lucky for US!” said he, glaring shrewdly between a mouthful. The Count heard the word “Southampton,” and wished to know how it was comprised. A passage of Portuguese ensued, and then the Countess said: “Silva, you know, desired to relinquish the vessel at Southampton. He does not comprehend the word ‘expense,’ but” (she shook a dumb Alas!) “I must think of that for him now!” “Oh! always avoid expense,” said the Hon. Melville, accustomed to be paid for by his country. “At what time shall we arrive, may I ask, do you think?” the Countess gently inquired. The watch of a man who had his eye on Time was pulled out, and she was told it might be two hours before dark. Another reckoning, keenly balanced, informed the company that the day’s papers could be expected on board somewhere about three o’clock in the afternoon. “And then,” said the Hon. Melville, nodding general gratulation, “we shall know how the world wags.” How it had been wagging the Countess’s straining eyes under closed eyelids were eloquent of. “Too late, I fear me, to wait upon Lord Livelyston to-night?” she suggested. “To-night?” The Hon. Melville gazed blank astonishment at the notion. “Oh! certainly, too late tonight. A-hum! I think, madam, you had better not be in too great a hurry to see him. Repose a little. Recover your fatigue.”