They came to the _dilettante’s_ house, where, as in every house in England, the front door stood open. (Vane had not been able to resist public opinion, and for the sake of his own reputation as a fashionable man, he had given way to this custom.) The two men entered the hall, and as they began to ascend the staircase they had the impression of penetrating into the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. They went up the narrow stairs, very soon found themselves in the large drawing-rooms, and looked round at the frescoed walls representing mythological subjects. “This place of fashionable gatherings looks more abandoned than the deserts of Arabia,” said Lionel, “this was the last haunt of the social _élite_; and there is about these rooms a stale aroma of _vieille Société_, which makes me feel faint.” They seated themselves upon chairs carved in the shape of shells; other seats and _fauteuils_ represented flowers and fruits, in imitation of Dresden china. Poor Vane, he had done his level best to keep up his standard of rococo art. “I was told that very few came to his parties of late—was that so?” inquired Danford. “Ah! my dear Dan, I have seen him waste his energy and such gifts as he had to entertain half-a-dozen men and women, so as to keep up his ephemeral influence over what he still persisted in calling—his _salon_. Some, like Mrs Archibald—ah! I always forget she is Lady Mowbray now—came with her present husband; Lady Carey accompanied them, simply for the sake of past associations, or out of pity. One evening—ah! I can never forget that evening, why! it was only last week—Sinclair and I arrived at ten o’clock, and found Vane all alone, in that very shell-seat you are in. He was waiting for his guests. I can see him in my mind’s eye, lying back, his eyes shut. The rooms were discreetly lighted up; the tables, or monopodiums, as he insisted on calling them, were laden with luscious fruit, whilst muffled melody of an invisible orchestra, playing antiquated gavottes and minuettos, was heard in the distance. Latterly these were the only strains he approved of. When he caught sight of us in the doorway, he got up and came forward, seizing hold of our hands. ‘Oh! my dear friends,’ said he, ‘you are welcome! You will help me to-night.’ I noticed a thrill of sadness in his voice, and I detected a tear in the corner of his eye. ‘What’s up?’ asked Sinclair. ‘My dear friends,’ he replied, ‘you will never guess. The Prince of Goldstein-Neubaum, my social guide, has dropped me!’ Poor Vane went on telling us that the Prince had telephoned to him an hour ago, announcing that he could no longer continue to be his guide. ‘And what do you think?’ went on the little _dilettante_, ‘he said he was going to join the School of Observation! Too dreadful, my poor friends. When the leaders of Society give up the game, what is there left? Of course you, who represent our Peerage, are utterly lost, so are the men who, like