Travers greeted him with great cordiality; and Lady Glenalvon asking him to escort her to the refreshment-room, Kenelm had no option but to offer his arm to Cecilia. Kenelm felt somewhat embarrassed. “Have you been long in town, Miss Travers?” “A little more than a week, but we only settled into our house yesterday.” “Ah, indeed! were you then the young lady who--” He stopped short, and his face grew gentler and graver in its expression. “The young lady who--what?” asked Cecilia with a smile. “Who has been staying with Lady Glenalvon?” “Yes; did she tell you?” “She did not mention your name, but praised that young lady so justly that I ought to have guessed it.” Cecilia made some not very audible answer, and on entering the refreshment-room other young men gathered round her, and Lady Glenalvon and Kenelm remained silent in the midst of a general small-talk. When Travers, after giving his address to Kenelm, and, of course, pressing him to call, left the house with Cecilia, Kenelm said to Lady Glenalvon, musingly, “So that is the young lady in whom I was to see my fate: you knew that we had met before?” “Yes, she told me when and where. Besides, it is not two years since you wrote to me from her father’s house. Do you forget?” “Ah,” said Kenelm, so abstractedly that he seemed to be dreaming, “no man with his eyes open rushes on his fate: when he does so his sight is gone. Love is blind. They say the blind are very happy, yet I never met a blind man who would not recover his sight if he could.” CHAPTER IV. Mr. CHILLINGLY MIVERS never gave a dinner at his own rooms. When he did give a dinner it was at Greenwich or Richmond. But he gave breakfast-parties pretty often, and they were considered pleasant. He had handsome bachelor apartments in Grosvenor Street, daintily furnished, with a prevalent air of exquisite neatness, a good library stored with books of reference, and adorned with presentation copies from authors of the day, very beautifully bound. Though the room served for the study of the professed man of letters, it had none of the untidy litter which generally characterizes the study of one whose vocation it is to deal with books and papers. Even the implements for writing were not apparent, except when required. They lay concealed in a vast cylinder bureau, French made, and French polished. Within that bureau were numerous pigeon-holes and secret drawers, and a profound well with a separate patent lock. In the well were deposited the articles intended for publication in “The Londoner,” proof-sheets, etc.; pigeon-holes were devoted to ordinary correspondence; secret drawers to confidential notes, and outlines of biographies of eminent men now living, but intended to be completed for publication the day after their death.