Neither Honoria, Dalton, nor myself remained long in the gallery. We retired with a select few, and were served in an antechamber, separated from the grand reception-room by an arch, through which, by putting aside a silk curtain, Honoria could see, at a distance, any that entered, as they passed in from the hall. My own position was such that I could look over her shoulder and see as she saw. _Vis-a-vis_ with her, and consequently with myself, was Adonaïs, a celebrated author, and person of the _beau monde_. On his left, Dalton, always mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and Jeffrey Lethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy, animated, personal. "You are fortunate in having a woman of taste to manage your entertainments," said Lethal, in answer to a remark of Denslow's,--"but in bringing these people together she has made a sad blunder." "And what may that be?" inquired Dalton, mildly. "Your guests are too well behaved, too fine, and on their guard; there are no butts, no palpable fools or vulgarians; and, worse, there are many distinguished, but no one great man,--no social or intellectual sovereign of the occasion." Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. "Pray, Mr. Lethal, tell me who he is? I thought there was no such person in America," she added, with a look of reproachful inquiry at Dalton and myself, as if we should have found this sovereign and suggested him. "You are right, my dear queen; Lethal is joking," responded Dalton; "we are a democracy, and have only a queen of"---- "Water ices," interrupted Lethal; "but, as for the king you seek, as democracies finally come to that,"---- "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Honoria, raising the curtain, "it must be he that is coming in." Honoria frowned slightly, rose, and advanced to meet a new-comer, who had entered unannounced, and was advancing alone. Dalton followed to support her. I observed their movements,--Lethal and Adonaïs using my face as a mirror of what was passing beyond the curtain. The masses of level light from the columns on the left seemed to envelope the stranger, who came toward us from the entrance, as if he had divined the presence of Honoria in the alcove. He was about the middle height, Napoleonic in form and bearing, with features of marble paleness, firm, and sharply defined. His hair and magnificent Asiatic beard were jetty black, curling, and naturally disposed. Under his dark and solid brows gleamed large eyes of abysmal blackness and intensity. "Is it Lord N----?" whispered Lethal, moved from his habitual coldness by the astonishment which he read in my face. "Senator D----, perhaps," suggested Denslow, whose ideas, like his person, aspired to the senatorial. "Dumas," hinted Adonaïs, an admirer of French literature. "I heard he was expected." "No," I answered, "but certainly in appearance the most noticeable man living. Let us go out and be introduced." "Perhaps," said Lethal, "it is the d----."