The Prince paid no attention to the remark, but turned the conversation into another channel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier's book. From this he wandered away to the characteristic differences of national music, thence to the discoveries then making in Central America, and lastly, engaged her in an animated discussion of the question of slavery. On none of these points was he deeply or even well informed, but he possessed that fluency and facility which intercourse with society confers; and as all his knowledge was derived from men, and not from books, it bore a certain stamp of originality about it that secured attention. Not, indeed, from George Onslow; he was the most bored of men. None of the topics were his topics. Of Tattersall's, the Guards' Club, the society of London, the odds on the “Derby,” he could have discoursed well and pleasantly. From what was “wrong” with the Sa'nbucca filly to what was not right with Lady Flutterton's niece, he could have told you everything; but all these other themes were, in his estimation, but sheer pedantry, and, indeed, they only lacked a little knowledge a very little would have sufficed to be so. “He is gone,” said the Prince, with a caustic smile which revealed a plan; “gone at last.” “So, then, this was a device of yours, Prince,” said she, laughing. “I really must call my cousin back and tell him so.” “No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won my battle, let me profit by my victory. Let me speak to you on another subject.” He drew his chair a little nearer to the table as he spoke, and laid his arm on it. Kate's heart beat fast and full; and the color came and went rapidly in her cheek. A vague sense of fear, of shame, and of triumphant pride were all at conflict within her. There was but one theme in the world that could have warranted such a commencement, so serious, so grave, so purpose-like. Was this, then, possible? The glittering stars all a blaze of brilliants that shone beside her seemed an emblem of that high state which was now within her reach; and what a torrent of varied emotions rushed through her heart! Of home, of her father, of Nelly, of Frank; and, lastly, what thoughts of George, poor George, whom she knew loved her, and to whom, without loving, she was not altogether indifferent. “Do not be agitated, Mademoiselle,” said the prince, laying the slightest touch of his jewelled fingers on her arm. “I ask a little patience and a little calm consideration for what I am about to say.” “Is that really like an Irish peasant's cottage, Miss Daiton?” said the abbe, as he held before her a drawing of one, in all the details of its most striking misery. “Yes, perfectly; not exaggerated in the least,” said she, hurriedly blushing alike at the surprise and the interruption. “You have no such misery, Monsieur le Prince, in Russia, I believe?” remarked the priest, with a courteous bend of the head.