As he had anticipated, he was one of the last arrivals, but he was not destined to experience the embarrassment he feared from this circumstance. The wide hallway of the great house was deserted, and he threaded his way through several dimly lighted drawing-rooms in the direction of a voice that indicated the location of the lecturer. Not until he stood in the doorway of what appeared to be an assembly hall, and was in reality the ballroom of the house, did he realise the reason of the obscurity through which he had passed. At the far end of the room, he saw one of the well-known portraits of Philip IV projected by a lantern upon a huge sheet of canvas. The widening shaft of light that traversed the intervening space dimly disclosed the audience as a series of heads, from which arose a sibilant wave of amused comment as the portrait of the king melted into that of his daughter, a serious infant with corkscrew curls, all unconscious of the monstrous absurdity of her voluminous skirts. This transition from one picture to another was accepted by one of the audience as an opportunity to shift his chair, and Leigh saw the bishop's salient profile thrown for a moment on the canvas, before he subsided again to the general level. The young man supposed that in thus discovering the whereabouts of the bishop he had also located his daughter, and he marked the spot against the restoration of full light to the room. Meanwhile he maintained his position in the door, and would have continued to do so, had not his host tiptoed to his side and thrust him into a near-by chair. For some time he remained almost rigidly still, as if he would make amends for the slight noise of his entrance by subsequent self-effacement. The succession of pictures, even the surrender of Breda and the scene of the jolly drinkers, shared his attention with that part of the room in which he had seen the bishop rise, but he soon realised that no further discoveries were possible as yet in that direction, and began to pay more heed to the lecturer.