her and fancy that her
conduct towards the young girl entrusted to her care must have been
mysteriously atrocious.

No, I could not expect much from the call, having been blessed with an
unexpected glimpse of heaven which it could not give back to me again.
Still, I thought of little else until the coming of the very earliest
hour at which I could show myself in Park Lane on the following day.

Yes, Lady Tressidy was at home, vouchsafed a solemn footman. My name was
announced, and I scarcely ventured to lift my eyes on entering the
drawing-room, lest they should tell me that Karine was not there.
Perhaps she was ill. Indeed, it seemed only too likely that she should
be so. I wondered I had not mentally confronted that probability before.

There were a number of guests assembled in the room, it seemed to me,
despite the fact that everybody who was anybody was supposed to be
spending the Christmas season far away in other people's country houses.

At length, when I had had a few words with my hostess, the crowd
resolved itself into a dozen persons at most, and seeing Karine at a far
end of the room surrounded by three or four vacuous-looking young men, I
desperately resolved to outstay everybody.

I had scarcely more than a glance and a smile from Miss Cunningham, and
then I found myself obliged to talk with simulated amiability to a
semi-young woman who was anxious I should know how often she had heard
of me and my "travels," and that she had read the two or three books I
had been idiot enough to write. Half an hour went by. I had been passed
on to other ladies, who seemed to my prejudiced eyes to bear an
astonishing family likeness, both in mind and face, to the first of the
series. Three or four people had gone. One or two new ones had come in,
but at last I had had the good fortune to escape from the latest on my
list of acquaintances.

I could still see Karine. She had got rid of one of her adorers, but had
a couple yet in hand, and it appeared to me that she would not be sorry
to bid them adieu.

At all events, her face was pale as a lily petal held against the light,
her sweet lips drooped wistfully at the corners, and I thought she spoke
but seldom. The smile with which she had greeted me had been fleeting,
and even as it lingered there had been an expression in her large soft
eyes which it galled me that I should be too dull to read. It had seemed
to say, "Something has happened since I saw you last. Why