“Colonel and Miss Berkeley, Mrs. and Miss de Peyster; Mr. Pembroke--” was bawled out by Pembroke’s friend, Ryleief who was making the introductions to the new Minister and his wife--and the party stood face to face with Ahlberg and Madame Koller. The rencontre was so staggering and unexpected that Pembroke quite lost his self-possession. He gazed stupidly at the pair before him--M. and Madame Volkonsky, who had formed much of his life five years before as Ahlberg and Elise Koller. He saw Ahlberg’s breast covered with orders, and he wore an elaborate court suit. Madame Koller, or Madame Volkonsky, blazed with diamonds. Her hair was as blonde and as abundant as ever, and far behind her streamed a gorgeous satin train of the same golden hue as her hair. Olivia, too, felt that sudden shock at meeting people who rise, as it were, like the dead from their graves. She felt also that repulsion that came from a knowledge of both of them. She could only silently bow as they were presented. But both M. and Madame Volkonsky expressed more than mere surprise at the meeting. Ahlberg or Volkonsky as he now was, turned excessively pale. His uncertain glance fell on Pembroke, and turned again on his wife. As for her, the same pallor showed under the delicate rouge on her cheek, but women rally more quickly under these things than men do. Besides, she had contemplated the possibility of meeting some of these people, and was not altogether unprepared for it. If, however, the blankness of amazement had seized upon Olivia and Pembroke, and if the De Peysters were also a little unnerved by the strangeness of what was occurring before them, Colonel Berkeley was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand warmly. He rolled out his salutations in a loud, rich voice. “Why, how do you do Eliza. You’ll excuse an old man, my dear, for calling you by your first name, won’t you? And my friend Ahlberg that was. This is delightful,” he added, looking around as if to challenge the whole party. In the midst of the strange sensations which agitated him, Pembroke could scarcely forbear from laughing at the Colonel’s greeting, and the effect it produced. Madame Volkonsky flushed violently, still under her rouge, while Volkonsky’s face was a study in its helpless rage. Poor Ryleief, with a mob of fine people surging up to be introduced, was yet so consumed with curiosity, that he held them all at bay, and looked from one to the other. “Does Madame understand that gentleman?” he asked in French, eagerly-- “Of course she does, my dear fellow,” heartily responded Colonel Berkeley in English. “She spoke English long before she learned Rooshan, if she ever learned it. Hay, Eliza?”