ash of plates were to his ears the pleasant harmony of a convivial
meeting.

He was in the very height of enjoyment. A few days back he had received
a large remittance from Kate. It came in a letter to Nelly, which he had
not read, nor cared to read. He only knew that she was at St. Petersburg
waiting for Midchekoffs arrival. The money had driven all other thoughts
out of his head, and before Nelly had glanced her eye over half the
first page, he was already away to negotiate the bills with Abel Kraus,
the moneychanger. As for Frank, they had not heard of him for several
months back. Nelly, indeed, had received a few lines from Count Stephen,
but they did not appear to contain anything very interesting, for she
went to her room soon after reading them, and Dalton forgot to ask more
on the subject. His was not a mind to conjure up possible misfortunes.
Always too ready to believe the best, he took the world ever on its
sunniest side, and never would acknowledge a calamity while there was a
loophole of escape from it.

"Why wouldn't she be happy?--What the devil could ail her?----Why
oughtn't he to be well?----Wasn't he as strong as a bull, and not
twenty yet!" Such were the consolations of his philosophy, and he needed
no better.

His flatterers, too, used to insinuate little fragments of news about
the "Princess" and the "Young Count," as they styled Frank, which he
eagerly devoured, and as well as his memory served him, tried to repeat
to Nelly when he returned home of a night. These were enough for him;
and the little sigh with which he tossed off his champagne to their
health was the extent of sorrow the separation cost him.

Now and then, it is true, he wished they were with him; he'd have liked
to show the foreigners "what an Irish girl was;" he would have been
pleased, too, that his handsome boy should have been seen amongst "them
grinning baboons, with hair all over them." He desired this the more,
that Nelly would never venture into public with him, or, if she did,
it was with such evident shame and repugnance that even his selfishness
could not exact the sacrifice. "'T is, maybe, the sight of the dancing
grieves her, and-she lame," was the explanation he gave himself of this
strange turn of mind; and whenever honest Peter had hit upon what he
thought was a reason for anything, he dismissed all further thought
about the matter forever. It was a debt paid, and he felt as if he had
the receipt on his file.