In such mood he was, when a voice pierced through the cloud which surrounded him. Rereworth came to seek his friend. "Morton," he cried, laughing, "'awake, arise, or be for ever fallen.' Winston desires me to present you. Winston, Mr. Morton--Morton, Mr. Winston. Pray find my friend a partner, most philosophical sir." But Randolph begged to be excused. He escaped from the metaphysician, found his way to an uncurtained window, and looked forth upon the midnight sky. The stars were shining, and he thought of the science which pretended to connect their aspects with the fate of the wanderers upon earth. Which was his? The planet of the queen of love was there, bright in the deep blue canopy. Was she his friend? It was a soothing idea. He forgot his doubts and presentiments, and allowed himself to indulge in the most delicious dreams. His fancy became exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy. In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic, without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend. A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehearsed some of the marvels of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs. Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter. "Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to Randolph. "The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was Esther that spoke. "Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she whispered, "do you see no likeness?" "Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To whom?" Randolph advanced at the same moment. "Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan."