At length, when their own turn came, the General took precedence of his nephew and led Drusilla up to the ambassadress. First he shook hands heartily with his old friend the ambassador and bowed to the ambassadress, and then presented Drusilla as: “My niece, Mrs. Lyon.” Drusilla curtsied deeply, and the minister and his wife received her kindly. And after a few commonplace courtesies the General passed on to make room for Dick and Anna, and also to look out for some of his own friends in the crowd. But ah! what a suppressed buzz went through the room as the veteran passed, with the newest beauty of the season hanging on his arm. “What an exquisite young creature!” lisped young Leslie of the Guards. “Who is she then?” inquired Beresford of the Hussars. “Don’t know, I am sure. Does anybody here? Do _you_, Kill.? You look as if you did,” said Leslie, turning to Lord Killcrichtoun, who was standing like a statue staring after the retreating form of General Lyon and Drusilla, who were speedily lost in the crowd. The question recalled him to himself. “Do I—what?” he inquired, with assumed carelessness. “Do you know that lovely girl who passed just now, hanging on the arm of that tall, gray-haired old gentleman?” “What girl? I noticed no _girl_ particularly.” “Chut! are you subject to catalepsy, Kill.?” laughed Leslie. “But who _can_ she be? Some girl that is just out, I suppose. Somebody must know. Let’s go and ask Harry. He knows everything,” said Beresford, moving off. “Stop—find out who the old gentleman is first. He looks like a foreigner, and she must be his daughter,” suggested the Guardsman. “Oh! by the way! that is it!” suddenly exclaimed the Hussar. “What is it? Have you made a discovery?” “Yes! you said he looked like a foreigner; and so the whole thing flashed upon me at once. He is the Prince Waldemar Pullmynoseoff. Her Majesty received him yesterday. He has a daughter. The Princess Shirra.” “Why, certainly! of course! undoubtedly! how could we have missed seeing it at once.” And so these young men, upon their own sole responsibility, settled the rank of the simple republican gentleman and lady. And Alexander Lyon, or Lord Killcrichtoun, smiled as he heard this. While they spoke several of their acquaintances came lounging up. One of them, a fair young man with straw-colored hair and mustache, spoke: “We have just seen the loveliest little creature. Can any of you tell who she is?” “Now, in the first place,” said Leslie, maliciously, “where there are so many lovely creatures present, how are we to know which you mean?” “Oh, you cannot mistake if you have seen her! the most perfect beauty of the season. She wore—there now I cannot tell you what she wore: but her dress was the most elegant as she was the most beautiful in the room,” persisted the young man, pulling at his fair mustache.