The Indian judge and the Irish barrister talked _shop_; and there was a very animated discussion of a great international-law case, the details of which had filled the columns of the _Times_ for the last three weeks--a case in which masculine intelligence perceived a thrilling interest, but which to the female mind appeared only a hopeless complication of politics and ship-building. In so small a party the conversation was tolerably general. Mr. Crawford entered heartily into the ship-building case; and only Florence and the elegant young diplomatist were confidential, chattering gaily in that exquisite language which seems to have been invented in the interests of coquetry. The gentlemen came to the drawing-room very soon after the ladies had settled themselves in opposite corners: Florence and Cecil on a cosy little sofa by the open window--a sofa just large enough to accommodate their ample skirts; the dowager and the judge's wife on easy-chairs near a ground-glass screen which concealed the empty grate. Florence had so much intelligence of a peculiarly confidential nature to impart to her friend, that she looked almost coldly on the elegant young Belgian when he presented himself before her. It is very nice for a young lady, whose French is undoubtedly Parisian, to discuss Lamartine and De Vigny, Hugo and Chateaubriand--and such other Gallic luminaries whose works a young lady may discuss--with an agreeable companion; but Florence Crawford had made a conquest within the last week, and was bright with all the radiance of a new triumph, and unutterably eager to impart the tidings of her last success to Cecil.