ention of several other persons
at the table besides Anderson. The ex-Viceroy was a bachelor, and one
of the great _partis_ of the day. What could be more fitting than that
Elizabeth Merton should carry him off, to the discomfiture of
innumerable intriguers?

After dinner, Elizabeth waited for Anderson in the magnificent gallery
upstairs where the guests of the evening party were beginning to gather,
and the musicians were arriving. When he came she played her usual fairy
godmother's part; introducing him to this person and that, creating an
interest in him and in his work, wherever it might be useful to him. It
was understood that she had met him in Canada, and that he had been
useful to the poor delicate brother. No other idea entered in. That she
could have any interest in him for herself would have seemed incredible
to this world looking on.

"I must slip away," said Anderson, presently, in her ear; "I promised to
look in on Philip if possible. And to-morrow I fear I shall be
too busy."

And he went on to tell her his own news of the day--that the Conference
would be over sooner than he supposed, and that he must get back to
Ottawa without delay to report to the Canadian Ministry. That afternoon
he had written to take his passage for the following week.

It seemed to her that he faltered in telling her; and, as for her, the
crowd of uniformed or jewelled figures around them became to her, as he
spoke, a mere meaningless confusion. She was only conscious of him, and
of the emotion which at last he could not hide.

She quietly said that she would soon follow him to Portman Square, and
he went away. A few minutes afterwards, Elizabeth said good-night to her
hostess, and emerged upon the gallery running round the fine Italianate
hall which occupied the centre of the house. Hundreds of people were
hanging over the balustrading of the gallery, watching the guests coming
and going on the marble staircase which occupied the centre of the hall.

Elizabeth's slight figure slowly descended.

"Pretty creature!" said one old General, looking down upon her. "You
remember--she was a Gaddesden of Martindale. She has been a widow a long
time now. Why doesn't someone carry her off?"

Meanwhile Elizabeth, as she went down, dreamily, from step to step, her
eyes bent apparrently upon the crowd which filled all the spaces of the
great pictorial house, was conscious of one of those transforming
impressions which represent the sud