He turned over the gilt-edged cards and the scented notes--there seemed to be a great many people in town, notwithstanding the deadness of the season--and he selected one from a certain Lady Northgate. She was an old friend of his, and she had written him a pretty little note, asking him to a reception for that night. It was just the little note which a thorough woman of the world would write to a man whom she liked, and who had struck a streak of bad luck. Most of Drake's acquaintances who were in town would be there; and it would be a good opportunity of facing the situation and accepting more or less sincere sympathy with a good grace. It was a fine night; and he walked to the Northgates' in Grosvenor Square; and thought of the evening he and Nell had sailed in to Shorne Mills with the lights peeping out through the trees, and the stars twinkling in the deep-blue sky. It already seemed years since that night, but he saw the girl's face as clearly as if she were walking beside him now. The face vanished as he went up the broad staircase and into the brilliantly lighted room; and Shorne Mills seemed farther away, and all that had happened there like a dream, as Lady Northgate held out her hand and smiled at him. She was an old friend, and many years his senior; but of course she looked young--no one in society gets old nowadays--and she greeted him with a cheerful badinage, which, however skillfully, suggested sympathy. "It was a good boy to come!" she said. "I scarcely half expected you, and Harry offered to bet me ten to one in my favorite gloves that you wouldn't; but, somehow, I thought you would turn up. I wrote such a pretty note, didn't I?" "You did; you always do," said Drake. "It was quite irresistible." Lord Northgate, who was the "Harry" alluded to, came up and gave Drake a warm grip of the hand. "What the deuce are you doing here?" he asked. "Thought you were shooting down at Monkwell's place, or somewhere. Jolly glad Lucy didn't take my bet. And where have you been?" "With the Devon and Somerset," replied Drake, with partial truth. "Wish I had!" grumbled Northgate. "Kept at the Office." He was in the Cabinet. "There's always some beastly row, or little war, just going on when one wants to get at the salmon or the grouse. I declare to goodness that I work like a nigger and get nothing but kicks for halfpence! I'd chuck politics to-morrow if it weren't for Lucy; and why on earth she likes to be shut in town, and sweltering in hot rooms, playing this kind of game, I can't imagine." "But then you haven't a strong imagination, Harry, dear," said his wife pleasantly. "I've got a strong thirst on me," said Northgate, "and a still stronger desire to cut this show. Come down to the smoking room and have a cigar presently, old chap." Drake knew that this was equivalent to saying, "I'm sorry for you, old man!" and nodded comprehendingly.