“I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, plaintively. “You are sorry for me,--you pity me,--but you can't help it. Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you will have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it when many a long mile will separate us.” Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he said, “I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you,--I do trust he loves you.” She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar evidently thought the former, for he quickly said, “I have been very bold,--very indiscreet. Pray forgive me.” “Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with her head averted. “It was _my_ fault, not _yours_. But here we are at your hotel, and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet to-night at the ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your own; this will be the signal between us.” “I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an air of devotion as he said “Good-bye!” “I saw her!” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him. CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT SIR William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up with rugs, and his foot on a stool, looked as little like a bridegroom as need be. He was suffering severely from gout, and in all the irritable excitement of that painful malady. A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, littered as it was with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small hand-bell. On the carpet around him lay the newspapers and reviews, newly arrived, but all indignantly thrown aside, uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his sufferings to waste a thought upon the interests of the world. “Not come in yet, Fenton?” cried he, angrily, to his servant. “I 'm certain you 're mistaken; go and inquire of her maid.” “I have just asked mamselle, sir, and she says her mistress is still out driving.” “Give me my colchicum; no, the other bottle,--that small phial. But you can't drop them. There, leave it down, and send Miss Leslie here.” “She is at the Gallery, sir.” “Of course she is,” muttered he, angrily, below his breath; “gadding, like the rest. Is there no one can measure out my medicine? Where's Miss Clara?” “She's in the drawing-room, sir.” “Send her here; beg her to do me the favor,” cried he, subduing the irritation of his manner, as he wiped his forehead, and tried to seem calm and collected. “Did you want me, grandpapa?” said the young girl, entering, and addressing him by the title she had one day given him in sportiveness, and which he liked to be called by.