Just then one or two ladies appear, and the sight of their fresh toilets moves us to a sudden recollection of our travel-stained condition—for rocks and bushes are more picturesque than beneficial in their effect upon costumes. We retire to our rooms, and, by the time we have made some necessary changes of dress, the dinner-bell rings. We should be very ungrateful if we failed to record the fact that the fare at Buck Forest is admirable, considering that we do the fullest possible justice to it. Sylvia breathes a sigh of satisfaction when she receives on her plate a slice of tender, well-dressed venison. “At last!” she says. “At last you have reached the _Ultima Thule_ of your dreams,” says Charley. “Shall I go out after dinner and shoot some pheasants for your supper? They abound here.” “No,” she answers, “don’t overwhelm me! Venison is enough for the first day—and such venison! To-morrow you may shoot the pheasants.” Meanwhile, Mrs. Cardigan has found that Mr. Charlton _is_ her acquaintance, and she is talking to him across the table. “What a remote corner of creation this is in which to meet you!” she says. “Pray how do you come to be here?” Mr. Charlton shrugs his shoulders. “I hardly know,” he answers. “Chance, good-fortune, anything you like, wafted me here. I have been in Transylvania for a month.” “And like it, of course; else you would not have staid so long.” “Could anyone fail to like it?” “Well, yes—I am sure some people would not like it,” she replies. “But not people of good taste, like you and me. Are you much of a hunter?” “Not very much, but I had the good luck to kill a deer this morning.” “So I have heard—a fine buck, they say. May I ask a favor for old acquaintance’ sake? Will you give me the antlers?” Certainly, Mrs. Cardigan will never need anything through lack of asking for it. A cardinal principle of her philosophy appears to be, ‘When you want a thing, say so.’ In the present instance she makes her request, as usual, with an engaging smile and perfect _sang-froid_. Mr. Charlton on his part looks a trifle embarrassed. “I should be very happy to grant you that, or any other favor,” he says, “but I have already promised the antlers—though I had little hope, when I made the promise, of securing such spoils—to a lady whom I left at Cæsar’s Head.” “Oh, indeed!” she says, opening her eyes a little. “In that case, of course, I can’t expect you to give them to _me_. But perhaps some one else will gratify me—Mr. Markham—Mr. Lanier—who will promise me the antlers of the first stag killed?” “We all promise them,” says Eric, gallantly, “provided that we are lucky enough to kill another stag.” “_I_ don’t promise,” says Charley, in an undertone.—“Shouldn’t you like them?” he adds, turning to Sylvia. “Very much—if they were offered to me,” she answers, in the same tone. “But I don’t think anything has much value that one is forced to ask for.” “Some things have,” says the young man, quickly.