Helen submitted, and when the gong pealed through the house, Major Erskine marched into the great _salle à_ _manger_, with a comely niece on each arm. The long tables were crowded, and they had to run the gauntlet of many eyes as they made their way to the head of the upper table. Before she touched her soup, Amy glanced down the line of faces opposite, and finding none that answered the slight description elicited from the waiter, she leaned a little forward to examine those on her own side of the table. Some way down sat several gentlemen, and as she bent to observe them, one did the same, and she received an admiring glance from a pair of fine black eyes. Somewhat abashed, she busied herself with her soup; but the fancy had taken possession of her, and presently she whispered to Helen,— “Do you see any signs of the baron?” “On my left; look at the hands.” Amy looked and saw a white, shapely hand with an antique ring on the third finger. Its owner’s face was averted, but as he conversed with animation, the hand was in full play, now emphasizing an opinion, now lifting a glass, or more frequently pulling at a blond beard which adorned the face of the unknown. Amy shook her head decidedly. “I hate light men, and don’t think that is the baron, for the gloves are a size too small for those hands. Lean back and look some four or five seats lower down on the right. See what sort of person the dark man with the fine eyes is.” Helen obeyed, but almost instantly bent to her plate again, smiling in spite of herself. “That is an Englishman; he stares rudely, says ‘By Jove!’ and wears no jewelry or beard.” “Now, I’m disappointed. Well, keep on the watch, and tell me if you make any discoveries, for I _will_ find the baron.” Being hungry, Amy devoted herself to her dinner, till dessert was on the table. She was languidly eating grapes, while Helen talked with the major, when the word “baron” caught her ear. The speakers sat at a table behind her, so that she could not see them without turning quite round, which was impossible; but she listened eagerly to the following scrap of chat:— “Is the baron going on to-morrow?” asked a gay voice in French. “Yes, he is bound for Baden-Baden. The season is at its height, and he must make his game while the ball is rolling, or it is all up with the open-handed Sigismund,” answered a rough voice. “Won’t his father pardon the last escapade?” asked a third, with a laugh. “No, and he is right. The duel was a bad affair, for the man almost died, and the baron barely managed to get out of the scrape through court influence. When is the wedding to be?” “Never, Palsdorf says. There is everything but love in the bargain, and he swears he’ll not agree to it. I like that.”