IN SPITE of the Count Mirabel’s inspiring companionship, it must be confessed that Ferdinand’s heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple’s house. Indeed, had it not been for the encouragement and jolly raillery of his light-hearted friend, it is not quite clear that he would have succeeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came over his vision as he entered the room; various forms, indeed, glanced before him, but he could distinguish none. He felt so embarrassed, that he was absolutely miserable. It was Mr. Temple’s hand that he found he had hold of; the calm demeanour and bland tones of that gentleman somewhat reassured him. Mr. Temple was cordial, and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand, and covered his confusion. Then he recognised the duchess and his mother; they were sitting together, and he went up and saluted them. He dared not look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bellair was talking to his father. At last he heard his name called by the Count. ‘Armine, mon cher, see this beautiful work!’ and Ferdinand advanced, or rather staggered, to a window where stood the Count before a group, and in a minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Temple. He could not speak. Katherine was sitting by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind her chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, and with so much art and tact, that in a few moments he had succeeded in producing comparative ease on all sides.

‘I am so glad that you have come to-day,’ said Henrietta. Her eyes sparkled with a strange meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew her gaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed and faded. It was a moment of great embarrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it.

Dinner, however, was soon announced as served, for Mirabel and Ferdinand had purposely arrived at the last moment. As the duke advanced to offer his arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Ferdinand with a flower, as if to console him for the separation. It was a round table; the duchess and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, the duke on the right hand of Miss Temple; where there were so many members of the same family, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Ferdinand held back, when Count Mirabel, who had secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned to Ferdinand, and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as he himself walked away, into the vacated seat. Henrietta caught the Count’s eye as he moved off; it was a laughing eye.

‘I am glad you sit next to me,’ said Lady Bellair to the Count, ‘because you are famous. I love famous people, and you are very famous. Why don’t you come and see me? Now I have caught you at last, and you shall come and dine with me the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month; I have dinner parties every day. You shall dine with me on the 8th, for then Lady Frederick dines with me, and she will taste you. You shall sit next to Lady Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder if you are as amusing as your grandfather. I remember dancing a minuet with him at Versailles seventy years ago.’

‘It is well recollected in the family,’ said the Count.

‘Ah! you rogue!’ said the little lady, chuckling, ‘you lie! I like a lie sometimes,’ she resumed, ‘but then it must be a good one. Do you know, I only say it to you, but I am half afraid lies are more amusing than truth.’

‘Naturally,’ said the Count, ‘because truth must in general be commonplace, or it would not be true.’

In the meantime, Ferdinand was seated next to Henrietta Temple. He might be excused for feeling a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful events of the last four-and-twenty hours were enough to deprive anyone of a complete command over his senses. What marvel, then, that he nearly carved his soup, ate his fish with a spoon; and drank water instead of wine! In fact, he was labouring under a degree of nervous excitement which rendered it quite impossible for him to observe the proprieties of life. The presence of all these persons was insupportable to him. Five minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and he would have felt quite reassured. Miss Temple avoided his glance! She was, in truth, as agitated as himself, and talked almost entirely to the duke; yet sometimes she tried to address him, and say kind things. She called him Ferdinand; that was quite sufficient to make him happy, although he felt very awkward. He had been seated some minutes before he observed that Glastonbury was next to him.

‘I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that I do not think I shall be able to remain in the room.’

‘I have heard something,’ said Glastonbury, with a smile, ‘that makes me quite bold.’

‘I cannot help fancying that it is all enchantment,’ said Ferdinand.

‘There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are enchanted,’ said Glastonbury.

‘Ferdinand,’ said Miss Temple in a low voice, ‘papa is taking wine with you.’ Ferdinand looked up and caught Mr. Temple’s kind salute.

‘That was a fine horse you were riding to-day,’ said Count Mirabel, across the table to Miss Grandison.

‘Is it not pretty? It is Lord Montfort’s.’

‘Lord Montfort’s!’ thought Ferdinand. ‘How strange all this seems!’

‘You were not of the riding party this morning,’ said his Grace to Henrietta.

‘I have not been very well this day or two,’ said Miss Temple.

‘Well, I think you are looking particularly well to-day,’ replied the duke. ‘What say you, Captain Armine?’

Ferdinand blushed, and looked confused at this appeal, and muttered some contradictory compliments.

‘Oh! I am very well now,’ said Miss Temple.

‘You must come and dine with me,’ said Lady Bellair to Count Mirabel, ‘because you talk well across a table. I want a man who talks well across a table. So few can do it without bellowing. I think you do it very well.’

‘Naturally,’ replied the Count. ‘If I did not do it well, I should not do it at all.’

‘Ah! you are audacious,’ said the old lady. ‘I like a little impudence. It is better to be impudent than to be servile.’

‘Mankind are generally both,’ said the Count.

‘I think they are,’ said the old lady. ‘Pray, is the old Duke of Thingabob alive? You know whom I mean: he was an Ã©migrÃ©, and a relation of yours.’

‘De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too.’

‘He was a great talker,’ said Lady Bellair, ‘but then, he was the tyrant of conversation. Now, men were made to listen as well as to talk.’

‘Without doubt,’ said the Count; ‘for Nature has given us two ears, but only one mouth.’

‘You said that we might all be very happy,’ whispered Lord Montfort to Miss Grandison. ‘What think you; have we succeeded?’

‘I think we all look very confused,’ said Miss Grandison. ‘What a fortunate, idea it was inviting Lady Bellair and the Count. They never could look confused.’

‘Watch Henrietta,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘It is not fair. How silent Ferdinand is!’

‘Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Christopher Sly or not,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘What a fine embarrassment you have contrived, Miss Grandison!’

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