“I will give you this in Clare’s name,” said Lady St. Jerome, as she selected a beautiful flower and presented it to Lothair. “It is in return for your crucifix, which I am sure she will highly esteem. I only wish it were a rose of Jericho.” Lothair started. The name brought up strange and disturbing associations: the procession in the Jesuits’ church, the lighted tapers, the consecrated children, one of whom had been supernaturally presented with the flower in question. There was an awkward silence, until Lothair, almost without intending it, expressed a hope that the cardinal was well. “Immersed in affairs, but I hope well,” replied Lady St. Jerome. “You know what has happened? But you will see him. He will speak to you of these matters himself.” “But I should like also to hear from you.” “Well, they are scarcely yet to be spoken of,” said Lady St. Jerome. “I ought not perhaps even to have alluded to the subject; but I know how deeply devoted you are to religion. We are on the eve of the greatest event of this century. When I wake in the morning, I always fancy that I have heard of it only in dreams. And many—all this room—will not believe in the possibility of its happening. They smile when the contingency is alluded to, and if I were not present they would mock. But it will happen—I am assured it will happen,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome, speaking with earnestness, though in a hushed voice. “And no human imagination can calculate or conceive what may be its effect on the destiny of the human race.” “You excite my utmost curiosity,” said Lothair. “Hush! there are listeners. But we shall soon meet again. You will come and see us, and soon. Come down to Vauxe on Saturday; the cardinal will be there. And the place is so lovely now. I always say Vauxe at Whitsuntide, or a little later, is a scene for Shakespeare. You know you always liked Vauxe.” “More than liked it,” said Lothair; “I have passed at Vauxe some of the happiest hours of my life.” CHAPTER 83 On the morning of the very Saturday on which Lothair was to pay his visit to Vauxe, riding in the park, he was joined by that polished and venerable nobleman who presides over the destinies of art in Great Britain. This distinguished person had taken rather a fancy to Lothair, and liked to talk to him about the Phoebus family; about the great artist himself, and all his theories and styles; but especially about the fascinating Madame Phoebus and the captivating Euphrosyne. “You have not found time, I dare say,” said the nobleman, “to visit the exhibition of the Royal Academy?” “Well, I have only been here a week,” said Lothair, “and have had so many things to think of, and so many persons to see.” “Naturally,” said the nobleman; “but I recommend you to go. I am now about to make my fifth visit there; but it is only to a single picture, and I envy its owner.” “Indeed!” said Lothair. “Pray tell me its subject, that I may not fail to see it.”