Nevertheless, many gay equipages were dashing about, containing society notabilities and bright parasols. One of these swept round a corner just as Laurence was about to cross the street; he had only a fleeting glimpse as it passed by. A landau and pair of bay steppers, with what is called “extravagant” action, powdered servants, two ladies in light summer dresses, and a young man, with a button-hole and lavender gloves, on the back seat. One of the ladies had a faint resemblance to Madeline, as well as could be gathered, from an impression of bright dark eyes, shaded by a French picture-hat and a chiffon sunshade. No, it could not be her. This was some patrician beauty, who looked as if she had been accustomed to such an equipage from the days of her perambulator. It was merely a passing idea, and quickly brushed aside by Laurence as he once more walked on rapidly. At length he approached the house--he was at the same side of the square--within four numbers now. His heart beat rather quickly as he glanced up. No; none of the upper blinds were pulled down, he observed with relief, and then he took in the dimensions of this palatial mansion, with a porch and pillars, conservatory, billiard-room, and buildings built out, and built on, wherever they could be crammed. The awnings were out--gay red and white striped ones--banks of flowers bloomed in the balconies. Oh, what a contrast to Solferino Place! Would not Madeline see it too? he asked himself, with a pang. After a moment’s hesitation he rang the bell, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, supercilious looking footman. “Is--is--Miss--West at home?” stammered her husband. “Not at home,” replied the servant, in a parrot voice, holding out his hand for the card that he presumed would be forthcoming. “Is she quite well?” ventured the visitor. “Quite well, sir, thank you,” having studied the questioner, and come to the conclusion that he was not one of your nobodies, like his worthy master. “Who shall I say?” he asked confidentially. “It is of no consequence. I have forgotten my cards. I will call again,” turning as he spoke and slowly descending the steps. This was a most rum go in Jeames’s opinion. He might, at least, have left his name! But no. Jeames stood gazing after him, with what is called “the door in his hand,” for two whole minutes, glanced sleepily around the big, white, hot-looking square, and then went in to study the paper and the latest betting on Goodwood. Laurence made his way to Mr. Jessop’s chambers, in--oh, extravagance!--a hansom, and found that gentleman extremely busy, and, as he expressed it, “up to his ears.” He, however, knocked off for the time being, in order to have a smoke and a chat with his friend, whom he declared that he found looking as fit as a fiddle, and requested to know when he was going to put his shoulder to the wheel again?