“Could you not conciliate him through his wife—whom—you resigned to him.” “She is dead—died before he left the country.” “Oh, that is unlucky! Still, I think an advertisement might do good. Allow me to reflect on that subject. Shall we now join Madame la Marquise?” On re-entering the drawing-room, the gentlemen found Beatrice in full dress, seated by the fire, and reading so intently that she did not remark them enter. “What so interests you, _ma sœur_?—the last novel by Balzac, no doubt?” Beatrice started, and, looking up, showed eyes that were full of tears. “Oh, no! no picture of miserable, vicious Parisian life. This is beautiful; there is _soul_ here.” Randal took up the book which the Marchesa laid down; it was the same that had charmed the circle at Hazeldean—charmed the innocent and fresh-hearted—charmed now the wearied and tempted votaress of the world. “Hum,” murmured Randal; “the Parson was right. This is power—a sort of a power.” “How I should like to know the author! Who can he be—can you guess?” “Not I. Some old pedant in spectacles.” “I think not—I am sure not. Here beats a heart I have ever tried to find, and never found.” “Oh, _la naïve enfant_!” cried the Count; “_comme son imagination s’égare en rêves enchantés_. And to think that, while you talk like an Arcadian, you are dressed like a princess.” “Ah, I forgot—the Austrian embassador’s. I shall not go to-night. This book unfits me for the artificial world.” “Just as you will, my sister. I shall go. I dislike the man, and he me; but ceremonies before men!” “You are going to the Austrian Embassy?” said Randal. “I too shall be there. We shall meet.” And he took his leave. “I like your young friend prodigiously,” said the Count, yawning. “I am sure that he knows of the lost birds, and will stand to them like a pointer, if I can but make it his interest to do so. We shall see.” Chapter IV. Randal arrived at the embassador’s before the Count, and contrived to mix with the young noblemen attached to the embassy, and to whom he was known. Standing among these was a young Austrian, on his travels, of very high birth, and with an air of noble grace that suited the ideal of the old German chivalry. Randal was presented to him, and after some talk on general topics, observed. “By the way, Prince, there is now in London a countryman of yours, with whom you are doubtless familiarly acquainted—the Count di Peschiera.” “He is no countryman of mine. He is an Italian. I know him but by sight and by name,” said the Prince, stiffly. “He is of very ancient birth, I believe.” “Unquestionably. His ancestors were gentlemen.” “And very rich.” “Indeed! I have understood the contrary. He enjoys, it is true, a large revenue.” A young _attaché_, less discreet than the Prince, here observed, “Oh, Peschiera!—Poor fellow, he is too fond of play to be rich.”