Yes, Lady Tressidy was at home, vouchsafed a solemn footman. My name was announced, and I scarcely ventured to lift my eyes on entering the drawing-room, lest they should tell me that Karine was not there. Perhaps she was ill. Indeed, it seemed only too likely that she should be so. I wondered I had not mentally confronted that probability before. There were a number of guests assembled in the room, it seemed to me, despite the fact that everybody who was anybody was supposed to be spending the Christmas season far away in other people's country houses. At length, when I had had a few words with my hostess, the crowd resolved itself into a dozen persons at most, and seeing Karine at a far end of the room surrounded by three or four vacuous-looking young men, I desperately resolved to outstay everybody. I had scarcely more than a glance and a smile from Miss Cunningham, and then I found myself obliged to talk with simulated amiability to a semi-young woman who was anxious I should know how often she had heard of me and my "travels," and that she had read the two or three books I had been idiot enough to write. Half an hour went by. I had been passed on to other ladies, who seemed to my prejudiced eyes to bear an astonishing family likeness, both in mind and face, to the first of the series. Three or four people had gone. One or two new ones had come in, but at last I had had the good fortune to escape from the latest on my list of acquaintances. I could still see Karine. She had got rid of one of her adorers, but had a couple yet in hand, and it appeared to me that she would not be sorry to bid them adieu. At all events, her face was pale as a lily petal held against the light, her sweet lips drooped wistfully at the corners, and I thought she spoke but seldom. The smile with which she had greeted me had been fleeting, and even as it lingered there had been an expression in her large soft eyes which it galled me that I should be too dull to read. It had seemed to say, "Something has happened since I saw you last. Why did you offer me your friendship, when it was too late to give me any help?" No doubt, I told myself, this was but a morbid fancy of mine. If I could have known the true motive of the glance I should have interpreted what appeared like unutterable sadness as mere boredom. Instead of the earnest appeal or reproach, I imagined at most the eyes intended to say, "I have talked long enough with these stupid men, none of whom have minds above cricket or football. Relieve me of them, please." But I had not even been able to do that, though I had tried, for as I attempted to oust the boldest of the group in my own favour, Lady Tressidy had swept across the room, with sharp rustling of silken linings and satin skirts, to claim me for an introduction to "an old friend who had longed for years to know me."