Mercia’s countenance at once assumed a more serious expression; hastily glancing towards that part of the room where Geometrus was seated she found he had slipped out unobserved, doubtless with the intention of leaving them quietly to their discussion on the sun’s condition. ‘Truly, it is most kind of thee, Sire, to show such appreciation; but I seek no flatteries, or compliments—nay—I will have none of them,’ she answered with downcast eyes. ‘Why, what harm is there in speaking a truth, Mercia? I do affirm that thy beauty only exceeds thy knowledge, or thy knowledge thy beauty, I know not which.’ ‘Be it so, then, Sire. It is nothing to my credit if I be beautiful; I had no part in the making; and as to my knowledge, it is a necessity to possess it, for it is my livelihood—my very bread.’ ‘Ah, Mercia, why spoil those eyes more beautiful than the brightest star in gazing into unknown regions day and night; year in, year out? Thou knowest no enjoyment—thou hast no pleasure of life, as other women; thine existence is lonely—colourless. Drink of the draught of love as nature wills it, and let the study of the stars stand over for a space.’ The voice of Felicitas as he uttered these words was low, but full of passion; but Mercia, owing to the confusion that covered her, did not notice the change of tone. The king’s words had indeed evoked emotions in her breast that for years she had kept in strict abeyance: now, these throbbed and pulsated through her frame with such force that she became dumb, tongue-tied; at this inopportune moment a knock was heard at the door, and the Emperor himself touched the electric button, when the door opened of itself and gave admittance to another visitor. It was only Geometrus who had returned for a part of an instrument he was making, which he had inadvertently left behind; his entrance, however, put a prompt stoppage to the Emperor’s love-making; and Mercia, hardly knowing what she was doing rose from her seat and turned to leave the apartment; observing her intention the Emperor concluded that it was time to withdraw. ‘Farewell, mistress,’ he said lightly, as he made her a bow, ‘I will come again, ere long and learn of thee the sun’s condition which is so necessary to be acquainted with.’ It was the fashion at this time to call a woman ‘Mistress,’ whether married or single. The abbreviation ‘Mrs.’ was discarded, as was also ‘Madam’ borrowed from the French, and the old English style resumed in their stead; while ‘Miss’ was applied only to children. The married woman was distinguished from the unmarried by the possession of two surnames,—her father’s and husband’s, while the single woman was known by her father’s name only. Mercia, in order to escape from observation quickly made her way into her most private apartment, and shutting herself safely within she sank upon the silken couch, and gave way to the tumult of feelings that overwhelmed her.