He followed the tall footman. The Princess, a grey-haired woman of tall and commanding presence, leaned through the carriage window. "Ah, Signor Corsini, I have been enchanted with your playing to-night. I am giving a reception at the Russian Embassy, in Chesham Place, to-morrow evening. I shall be so pleased if you will come and play for us--at your own fee, of course." Nello shot a swift glance into the carriage. On the back seat, facing the horses, were the grey-haired woman and a beautiful young girl. On the front seat was a dark, handsome man of about thirty-five. He recognised them at once, the man and the young girl. They were the two who had driven down the street to the Royalty Theatre on that dark winter night when he had been playing in the streets. "Enchanted, Madame. I will present myself to you to-morrow evening. Will you forgive me if I render you only very brief thanks at the moment? I have a very dear friend, I fear at the point of death, to whom I must hasten." The grey-haired Princess inclined her head graciously. "Pray do not wait a moment. I am sorry such trouble is awaiting you on the night of so great a success." Nello raised his hat and was moving away, when the charming girl leaned forward and spoke impetuously. "One second, Signor; we might be of assistance to you. Will you please give me the name of your friend, and his address?" She had recognised him the moment he appeared on the platform as the wandering musician she had passed on her way to the Royalty Theatre. She turned eagerly to the Princess, her mother. "We might send our own doctor, Sir Charles Fowler, he is so very clever. Perhaps this gentleman's friend has not had the best medical advice." The Princess assented graciously. She was a very kind-hearted woman, if not quite so enthusiastic in works of charity as her more impulsive daughter. Nello, with burning cheeks, gave the name of poor old Papa Péron and the number of the small house in Dean Street. His cheeks flamed, because he was wondering if she had recognised him as he had remembered her. It was evident she thought he was poor by that remark about the best medical advice. He thanked both the ladies in a low tone, and for the second time turned away. The man, Prince Zouroff, who had been fidgeting impatiently during the short interview, leaned out of the window of the carriage, and in a sharp, angry voice commanded the coachman to drive on. Ho sank back in his seat and darted a glance of contempt, first at his sister, then at his mother. "Your foolish sentimentality makes me sick, Nada. And I am surprised at you for abetting her in it," he added for the benefit of the Princess. The Princess answered him in calm, sarcastic tones. "Would it not be better, Boris, if you left off interfering with every word and act of poor little Nada? If she has too much compassion, you redress the balance by having none."