they seemed to have passed in one delightful dream. Were they dead,
annihilated, these old ambitions, the old love of great doings, or did
they only slumber? He moved in his seat uneasily.

At Euston the two men separated with a silent handshake. Mr. Sabin
drove to one of the largest and newest of the modern hotels de luxe. He
entered his name as Mr. Sabin--the old exile's hatred of using his title
in a foreign country had become a confirmed habit with him--and mingled
freely with the crowds who thronged into the restaurant at night. There
were many faces which he remembered, there were a few who remembered
him. He neither courted nor shunned observation. He sat at dinner-time
at a retired table, and found himself watching the people with a stir
of pleasure. Afterwards he went round to a famous club, of which he had
once been made a life member, but towards midnight he was wearied of the
dull decorum of his surroundings, and returning to the hotel, sought
the restaurant once more. The stream of people coming in to supper was
greater even than at dinner-time. He found a small table, and ordered
some oysters. The sight of this bevy of pleasure-seekers, all apparently
with multitudes of friends, might have engendered a sense of loneliness
in a man of different disposition. To Mr. Sabin his isolation was a
luxury. He had an uninterrupted opportunity of pursuing his favourite
study.

There entered a party towards midnight, to meet whom the head-waiter
himself came hurrying from the further end of the room, and whose
arrival created a little buzz of interest. The woman who formed the
central figure of the little group had for two years known no rival
either at Court or in Society. She was the most beautiful woman in
England, beautiful too with all the subtle grace of her royal descent.
There were women upon the stage whose faces might have borne comparison
with hers, but there was not one who in a room would not have sunk
into insignificance by her side. Her movements, her carriage were
incomparable--the inherited gifts of a race of women born in palaces.

Mr. Sabin, who neither shunned nor courted observation, watched her with
a grim smile which was not devoid of bitterness. Suddenly she saw him.
With a little cry of wonder she came towards him with outstretched
hands.

"It is marvelous," she exclaimed. "You? Really you?"

He bowed low over her hands.

"It is I, dear Helene," he answered. "A moment ago I was dreaming.