But where are his thoughts wandering? Had he forgotten that day of darkest despair? There had that happened to him which had happened to no other man. He was roused from his reverie by the sound of a trotting horse. He looked up, but the winding road prevented him at first from seeing the steed which evidently was approaching. The sound came nearer and nearer; and at length, turning a corner, Mr. Beckendorff came in sight. He was mounted on a strong-built, rough, and ugly pony, with an obstinate mane, which, defying the exertion’s of the groom, fell in equal divisions on both sides of its bottle neck, and a large white face, which, combined with its blinking vision, had earned for it the euphonious title of Owlface. Both master and steed must have travelled hard and far, for both were covered with dust and mud from top to toe, from mane to hoof. Mr. Beckendorff seemed surprised at meeting Vivian, and pulled up his pony as he reached him. “An early riser, I see, sir. Where is Mr. von Philipson?” “I have not yet seen him, and imagined that both he and yourself had not yet risen.” “Hum! how many hours is it to noon?” asked Mr. Beckendorff, who always spoke astronomically. “More than four, I imagine.” “Pray do you prefer the country about here to Turriparva?” “Both, I think, are beautiful.” “You live at Turriparva?” asked Mr. Beckendorff. “As a guest,” answered Vivian. “Has it been a fine summer at Turriparva?” “I believe everywhere.” “I am afraid Mr. von Philipson finds it rather dull here?” “I am not aware of it.” “He seems a ve-ry--?” said Beckendorff, looking keenly in his companion’s face. But Vivian did not supply the desired phrase; and so the Minister was forced to finish the sentence himself, “a very gentlemanlike sort of man?” A low bow was the only response. “I trust, sir, I may indulge the hope,” continued Mr. Beckendorff, “that you will honour me with your company another day.” “You are exceedingly obliging!” “Mr. von Philipson is fond, I think, of a country life?” said Beckendorff. “Most men are.” “I suppose he has no innate objection to live occasionally in a city?” “Few have.” “You probably have known him long?” “Not long enough to wish our acquaintance at an end.” “Hum!” They proceeded in silence for some moments, and then Beckendorff again turned round, and this time with a direct question. “I wonder if Mr. Von Philipson can make it convenient to honour me with his company another day. Can you tell me?” “I think the best person to inform you of that would be his Highness himself,” said Vivian, using his friend’s title purposely to show Mr. Beckendorff how ridiculous he considered his present use of the incognito. “You think so, sir, do you?” answered Beckendorff, sarcastically. They had now arrived at the gate by which Vivian had reached the road.