“My dear Duchess,” he said, “my indisposition was nothing. And as for your climate, I am beginning to delight in it,--one never knows what to expect, or when one may catch a glimpse of the sun. It is only the grayness which is always the same.” “And even that,” the Duchess remarked, smiling, “has been yellow for the last few days. Prince, you know my daughter Grace, and I am sure that you have met Miss Penelope Morse? We are waiting for two other men, Sir Charles Somerfield and Mr. Vanderpole.” The Prince bowed, and began to talk to his hostess’ daughter,--a tall, fair girl, as yet only in her second season. “Here comes Sir Charles, at any rate!” the Duchess exclaimed. “Really, I think we shall have to go in. We can leave a message for Dicky; they all know him at this place. I am afraid he is one of those shocking young men who entertain the theatrical profession here to supper.” A footman at that moment brought a note to the Duchess, which she tore open. “This is from Dicky!” she exclaimed, glancing it through quickly,--“Savoy notepaper, too, so I suppose he has been here. He says that he may be a few minutes late and that we are not to wait. He will pick us up either here or at the theatre. Prince, shall we let these young people follow us? I haven’t heard your excuses yet. Do you know that you were a quarter of an hour late?” He bent towards her with troubled face. “Dear Duchess,” he said, “believe me, I am conscious of my fault. An unexpected matter, which required my personal attention, presented itself at the last moment. I think I can assure you that nothing of its sort was ever accomplished so quickly. It would only weary you if I tried to explain.” “Please don’t,” the Duchess begged, “so long as you are here at last. And after all, you see, you are not the worst sinner. Mr. Vanderpole has not yet arrived.” The Prince walked on, for a few steps, in silence. “Mr. Vanderpole is a great friend of yours, Duchess?” he asked. The Duchess shook her head. “I do not know him very well,” she said. “I asked him for Penelope.” The Prince looked puzzled. “But I thought,” he said, “that Miss Morse and Sir Charles--” The Duchess interrupted him with a smile. “Sir Charles is very much in earnest,” she whispered, “but very very slow. Dicky is just the sort of man to spur him on. He admires Penelope, and does not mind showing it. She is such a dear girl that I should love to have her comfortably settled over here.” “She is very intelligent,” the Prince said. “She is a young lady, indeed, for whom I have a great admiration. I am only sorry,” he concluded, “that I do not seem able to interest her.” “You must not believe that,” the Duchess said. “Penelope is a little brusque sometimes, but it is only her manner.” They made their way through the foyer to the round table which had been reserved for them in the centre of the restaurant.