A distinguished company gathered around the board, but something was felt to be wanting! Where was she, the heiress of that house, the father’s pride, who should have been the “star of that goodlie companie”? Missing, gone, lost! And though many splendid chandeliers flashed down their rainbow radiance over the festive scene, they would not compensate for that light withdrawn. All felt the gloom and shadow of her absence. And very dull would have been this dinner party, but for the presence of the brilliant conversationist, Baron Dazzleright. Sir Parke Morelle understood his value upon these occasions, and therefore, when in a manner compelled to invite this Christmas party to his gloomy house, had, for this reason, among others, pressed Lord Dazzleright to come down to Hyde. Witty, sparkling, sarcastic, caustic, he was the right sort of biting acid to throw into the alkali of this flat set, to sting them into life and effervescence. And he did it. The conversation prospered—the jest, the jibe, the repartee, and the laugh went around. When the ladies had retired from the table, the festivity turned to revelry, and laughter, song and toast went around for an hour longer. Then, in good time, they joined Lady Morelle and her companions in the drawing-room, where coffee was served. And there still was Lord Dazzleright “the life of the company.” He was but thirty-five years old, handsome, talented, witty, distinguished, wealthy, titled, and—unmarried! consequently he was the worshiped of all young widows, virgins, and maneuvering mammas. In the first part of the evening he distributed his services very equally among the ladies present; but, in the latter part, divided his attentions between the two ladies Chappelle; and, last of all, confined his devotions to the pretty widow, Mrs. Bute Trevor. When the hour for retiring had arrived, Lord Dazzleright bowed out every guest before he bid Sir Parke and Lady Morelle good-night. And after these Herculean labors, these unheard-of exertions, he bowed _himself_ out, and, with a weary air, followed up stairs the footman who was appointed to show him his sleeping-room. “Where is Lord Montressor’s chamber?” he inquired of this functionary, as soon as he had dragged himself up one flight of stairs, and paused in the hall of the second floor. “There, sir, just opposite your own,” replied John. “Go, then, you needn’t wait.” John touched his forelock and retired. “Let me in! Let me in!” exclaimed the lion of the evening, roaring rather peremptorily at the door of Lord Montressor’s apartment. His lordship himself opened the door, and appeared with a look of surprise on his face. “What! has your fellow gone to bed, Montressor?”