“There are just three houses, they say, in all Paris, to one or other of which one must be presented,” said the Captain--“Madame de Luygnes, the Duchesse de Cour-celles, and Madame de Mirecourt.” “That Madame de Luygnes was your old mistress, was she not, Miss Henderson?” asked Lady Dorothea, haughtily. “Yes, my Lady,” was the calm reply. “And who are these other people?” “The Duc de Mirecourt was married to 'Mademoiselle,' the daughter of the Duchesse de Luygnes.” “Have you heard or seen anything of them since you came here?” asked her Ladyship. “No, my Lady, except a hurried salute yesterday from a carriage as we drove in. I just caught sight of the Duchesse as she waved her hand to me.” “Oh, I saw it. I returned the salutation, never suspecting it was meant for _you_. And she was your companion--your dear friend--long ago?” “Yes, my Lady,” said Kate, bending down over her work, but showing in the crimson flush that spread over her neck how the speech had touched her. “And you used to correspond, I think?” continued her Ladyship. “We did so, my Lady.” “And she dropped it, of course, when she married,--she had other things to think of?” “I 'm afraid, my Lady, the lapse was on _my_ side,” said Kate, scarcely repressing a smile at her own hardihood. “_Your_ side! Do you mean to say that you so far forgot what was due to the station of the Duchesse de Mirecourt, that you left her letter unreplied to?” “Not exactly, my Lady.” “Then, pray, what do you mean?” Kate paused for a second or two, and then, in a very calm and collected voice, replied,--“I told the Duchesse, in my last letter, that I should write no more,--that my life was thrown in a wild, unfrequented region, where no incident broke the monotony, and that were I to continue our correspondence, my letters must degenerate into a mere selfish record of my own sentiments, as unprofitable to read as ungraceful to write; and so I said good-bye--or _au revoir_, at least--till other scenes might suggest other thoughts.” “A most complimentary character of our Land of the West, certainly! I really was not aware before that Cro' Martin was regarded as an 'oubliette.'” Kate made no answer,--a silence which seemed rather to irritate than appease her Ladyship. “I hope you included the family in your dreary picture. I trust it was not a mere piece of what artists call still life, Miss Henderson?” “No, my Lady,” said she, with a deep sigh; but the tone and manner of the rejoinder were anything but apologetic. “Now I call that as well done as anything one sees in Hyde Park,” cried the Captain, directing attention as he spoke to a very handsome chariot which had just driven up to the door. “They're inquiring for somebody here,” continued he, as he watched the Chasseur as he came and went from the carriage to the house. “There's a Grandee of Spain, or something of that kind, lives on the fourth floor, I think,” said Martin, dryly.