These were Ned’s simple instructions. There were tender messages to madame’s daughter; suggestions as to the attitude most effective to be assumed towards monseigneur by madame’s plenipotentiary; references to the agony of suspense madame must suffer until she should learn the result of her envoy’s mission. Madame, in truth, either acted her part so well, or lived in it so naturally, as to half convince herself, we must believe, that she was not acting at all. “We are ready, as you see, to start the moment monseigneur’s command shall reach us,” she said. “We pray, monsieur, for the prosperous termination to your voyage.” Her eyes were moist; she impulsively extended her hand, which his lordship less impulsively kissed. His lips, indeed, unpractised in gallantry, were in pledge to a dream; his understanding, also. Had it not been, he might have inclined to the question, How comes it that madame, in direct communication with the Duke of Orleans, is unable to acquaint me certainly as to that prince’s present address? Ned returned to the drawing-room, prepared to repudiate any suggestion of the glamour that might be held to attach itself to a mild form of heroism. His modesty was not put to the test. The company accepted him in a frolic mood. It was full of laughter and thoughtlessness. He was rallied only on his serious mien. Pamela, wilful and radiant, would acknowledge him for no more than the means to a jest. Her affectation of indifference was secretly a stimulus to the spirits of two, at least, of the party. For a household depressed by the gloom of impending misfortune, the atmosphere was singularly volatile. Not to the end did Ned receive one hint that his self-sacrifice was appreciated and applauded; and at last he must make his adieux without the comfort of even a sympathetic glance from a certain direction to cheer him on his way. He had put on his hat and coat, had reached the very porch on his way forth, when a light step sounded behind him. “Good-bye, monsieur!” “God bless you, Pamela!” “Monsieur, it is only the rose you asked for.” The door slammed behind him. He held, half stupidly, in his hand a little sweet-smelling stalk with some crushed scarlet flowers. “My God--oh, my God!” he whispered, “it is part of herself.” CHAPTER VI. It was on a day of the last week of broiling July that Ned knocked at the door of a house in the Rue de Ragule, near the Schaerbeck Gate in Brussels, and desired to be shown into the presence of M. le Comte de Lawoestine. Now it seemed at the outset that his mission was in vain, for monsieur was, and had been for many days, away from home, and it was impossible for one to say when he would return. And whither had he gone? Ah! that was known only to himself, and, possibly, yes, to madame la comtesse. And was madame away also? Madame? Oh! _c’était une autre pair de manches_. Madame, it would appear, was upstairs at that very moment.