"On such a day as this," remarked the
Doctor, addressing a distinguished looking
spectre at the other end of the table, "you
will have missed your drive in the Bois, M. le
Baron?"

"No," replied the person addressed, "I was
there in the afternoon for two hours."

"But the fog—could you see?"

"I had runners before me with torches. I
had the idea that it might prove interesting."

"And, was it?" inquired another spectral
personage, looking up suddenly: as if he rather
regretted having committed himself to the
Doctor's hospitality before trying this new
experiment. "Was it interesting?"

"Not in the remotest degree," replied the
Baron, in an extinguished sort of voice, and to
the other's evident satisfaction. "It was
impossible to go beyond a foot-pace, nothing but
a grey mist was to be seen on all sides, the
horses were bewildered and had to be led. In
short, it was an experience to make a man
commit sui——"

"Allow me strongly to recommend this
salmi," cried the Doctor, in a loud voice.
"My chef is particularly good at it." The
Baron had got upon an awkward tack, and it
was necessary to interrupt him. Dr.
Bertrand well knew how difficult it was on these
occasions to keep that horrid word, which the
Baron had so nearly spoken, out of the
conversation. Everybody tried to avoid it, but it
would come up.

"For my part, I spent the day at the
Louvre," said a little man with a green
complexion, and all his features out of drawing. He
was a gentleman who had hitherto been entirely
unsuccessful in putting an end to himself. He
had been twice cut down, and once sewn up
when he had had the misfortune to miss his
jugular by the eighth of an inch. He had been
saved from drowning by a passing friend,
whom he hated ever afterwards. He had
charcoaled himself, forgetting to stop up the
key-hole; and he had jumped out of window,
just in time to be caught by a passing manure-
cart. "I spent the day at the Louvre,"
remarked this unfortunate gentleman; "the effect
of the fog upon some of the pictures was terrible."

"Dear me!" said the gentleman who had
before regretted having missed the Bois in a
fog, and who on the whole seemed to have
come to the Doctor's prematurely; "I should
like to have seen that very much, very much
indeed. I wonder if there will be a fog to—to——"

"To-morrow," he was going to say. The
Doctor thought the moment a propitious one
for sending round the champagne; and even in
this assembly it did its usual work, and the
buzz of talk followed as it circulated.

"This poulet," said the Doctor, "is a dish on
which we pride ourselves rather." It was curious
that the Doctor's guests always had a disposition
to avoid those dishes which he recommended the
most strongly. They knew why they were come,
and that was all very well; but there was
something treacherous in recommending things.
But the Doctor was up to this. He had given
enough of these entertainments to enable him
to observe how regular this shyness was in
its action, and so he thus paved the way for
the next dish, which was always the dish he
wanted his guests to partake of, and which they
did partake of almost invariably. The next
dish in this case was a new one, a "curry à
l'Anglaise," and almost everybody rushed at it
headlong. The dish was a novelty even in
England then, and in France wholly unknown. The
Doctor smiled as he raised the champagne to
his lips. "There is a fine tonic quality about
these English curries," he remarked.

"And tonics always disagree with my head,"
said a little man at the end of the table, who
had not yet spoken. And he ate no more curry.

Alfred de Clerval was, in spite of his sorrows,
so far alive to all that was going on around him
as to miss partaking of some of Dr. Bertrand's
favourite dishes. He had also entered into
conversation with one of his next neighbours. On
his left was the commercial man, whose exposure
was to take place next day; and this gentleman,
naturally a bon vivant, was making the
most of his time, and committing fearful havoc
on the Doctor's dishes and wine. On the right
of De Clerval was a gentleman whom Alfred
had not observed until they were seated
together at table, but he was a remarkable looking
man. They talked at first of indifferent
matters, or of what went on around them. They
got on together, as the saying goes. Men are
not very particular in forming acquaintances
when their duration is likely to be short, and so
when the wine had circulated for some time—
and every man there partook of it fiercely—
these two had got to speak freely, for men who
were but friends of an hour.

"You are a young man," said the stranger,
after a pause, during which he had observed De
Clerval closely; "you are a young man to be
dining with Dr. Bertrand."

"The Doctor's hospitality is, I suspect,
suited at times to persons of all ages," replied
Alfred. "I was going to add, and of both sexes.
How is it, by-the-by, that there are no ladies
among the Doctor's guests?"

"I suppose he won't have them," retorted
the other, with bitterness; "and he is right!
They would be going into hysterics in the middle
of dinner, and disorganising the Doctor's arrangements,
as they do disorder every system of which
they form a part, even to the great world itself."

"True enough," thought Alfred to himself.
"This man has suffered as I have, from being
fool enough to put his happiness in a woman's
keeping."

De Clerval stole a look at him. He was a
man considerably his own senior. He was
a very tall man, and had something of that
languid air in all his movements which often
belongs to height. His face was deeply marked
for his age, but there was a very kind and
merciful expression on it, and, though he looked