"But you do wrong not to dance, dear Monsieur, I assure you," said his Belgian friend, coming up to him at the end of a polka, with the elderly Countess, who with her dingy lilac barege gown exchanged for a dingier lilac silk, and her sandy hair fuzzier than ever, had been dancing vigorously. "Mademoiselle Cecile's music is delicious," he continued, "it positively inspires one; let me persuade you to attempt just one little dance." "Indeed, I would rather look on," said Horace; "I can listen to Mademoiselle Cecile's music all the same, and I do not care much for dancing, as I told you; besides, I don't know anyone here." "If that be all," cried the other eagerly, "I can introduce you to half a dozen partners in a moment; that lady that I have just been dancing with, for instance, will be charmed----" "Stop, I entreat you," said the young Englishman, in alarm, as his friend was about to rush off; "I cannot indeed--I assure you I am a very bad dancer; I am tired with my long walk too." "Ah, that walk," said the Belgian, "I did wrong in advising you to take it; you prolonged it till you missed the _table- d'hote_ dinner, and now you are too much fatigued to dance." "But I am very much amused as it is, I assure you," insisted Graham. "Do tell me something about all these people. Are they all stopping at the hotel?" His companion was delighted to give any information in his power. No, not a third of the people were stopping at the hotel, the greater part had come over from Liege, and would go back there by the ten o'clock train. "Then you do not know many of them?" Graham said.