While standing there and enjoying her child’s enjoyment, she saw a gentleman come forth apparently from a coffee-room below and start to cross Trafalgar Square; and with a half-suppressed cry she recognized— Alexander Lyon. She had been always looking for him—always expecting to see him since she first set foot in England, yet she had known that her looking was like the search for a needle in a hay-rick, and her expectations as extravagant in the first instance as they would be in the last. And now that she actually saw him walk out from the same house in which she herself was sojourning, the astonishment and the shock were so great, that she reeled and held by the window-sill for support. Without stopping to consider whether the action might be proper or otherwise, she turned to the waiter who was engaged in taking away the breakfast service, and beckoned him to her side. He came, his mouth a little open with wonder. “Does that gentleman stop here?” she inquired, pointing to Mr. Lyon. “Lord Killcrichtoun? Yes, ma’am, he stops here,” replied the waiter. “No, you mistake. You think I mean somebody else; but I mean _that_ gentleman. Look! he is just half across the square now.” “Just so, ma’am, Lord Killcrichtoun of Killcrichtoun, County of Sutherland, North Britain. Yes, ma’am, he is here.” “I am sure you mistake. I allude to the gentleman in gray. Look! now he lifts his hat and replaces it. There he is passing the corner?” “Precisely, ma’am. He is up for the Derby, ma’am, begging your pardon. My lord goes down to Epsom this evening, ma’am. Any more commands, ma’am?” “Thanks, no; you may go.” Drusilla sank down upon the nearest seat, unmindful of the prattling of her little Lenny, who was still laughing with delight at the broad absurdities of the puppetshow; for the whole truth flashed on her now. The young American gentleman who had claimed the barony of Killcrichtoun, in the right of his mother, was no other than her own Alick! And he was living under the same roof with her! Did he know that she was here, or would he find it out? Were the names of all new-comers registered in open books in English hotels as in American ones? If so, was it his habit to look at them? What would he think if he saw her name on the books of the hotel— “_Mrs. Alexander Lyon, child, and servant._” Would he happen to see her? Would he wish to see little Lenny? Suppose he were to meet her—what would he say or do? He might pass her; but could he pass little Lenny—charming little Lenny—fair-haired, blue-eyed little Lenny, with his father’s own features and complexion? It was scarcely possible that he could. And if he should stop to caress his son, to take him in his arms, to press him to his heart, what next? Would he stop there, and put the child away again? Not likely! for, setting natural affection aside, now that he had a title, he would want an heir; and what a fine, promising one was this?