centre of attraction in the room. Something
more than the superficial courtesy of
society was shown to her. Her misfortunes
invested her with a pathos which inspired
tenderness towards her in all who
approached her.

Women–Madame de Beaufort always
excepted adored her. They petted her
and worshipped her, and listened to her as
to an oracle. She received their confidences
with the softest sympathy and the most
genial interest, though I have seen at such
times a shade; of melancholy overspread her
perfect face as if she could not but contrast
her miserable fate with theirs. The
unquenchable desires of life and youth were
still living in her brain and heart, but the
passionate soul was imprisoned in a dead
body. No one over heard a complaint from
her lips. She was eagerly interested in
public news, and attaches and secretaries
would throng around her bringing her the
latest intelligence, and it was said that
even the greatest diplomatic authorities did
not disdain pausing by her couch when
present at any entertainment where she was,
to listen to her animated and suggestive
remarks.

I often met her during my early walks,
and soon she permitted me to walk
sometimes beside her litter, or to take Sorrow
for a run while she and her bearers rested.

"How fond my dog is of you, Mr.
Eden," she said, one day.

"Yes, and I like him, too. I like
everything about him but his name."

She sighed as I said this.

"How could you," I continued– "you
who are so simple and genuine in
everything—give him such a name?"

"Why do you dislike it?"

"Because there is a false sentiment in it
which jars on me."

"False sentiment? Surely everything
belonging to me—"

"Why do you check yourself?"

"I do not like speaking of myself."

"Did you give him his name?"

"No!"

"Then pray change it."

"I cannot do that."

"Was the name given to him by some
one you love?"

"Yes."

A faint blush rose to her temples, and
her eyes deepened into blue as a tender
reverential expression rose in them. After
my question and her monosyllabic answer
there was silence between us. The air
seemed suddenly to have become chill; she
dropped the curtains of her litter, and we
parted at the gates of the Mertons' house.

I thought I was getting a little tired of
Constantinople, for I felt very dull all that
day.

In the evening I intended to stay at
home, but was persuaded by Caradoc to go
with him to the French attaché’s. I did not
tell myself that I consented the more readily
that his was almost the only house in Pera
where I knew I should not meet the
Countess Irene.

M. de Beaufort had a private fortune of
his own, and, though he occupied no very
high rank in diplomacy, was able to live in
good deal of luxurious style in this most
barbaric and yet expensive capital.

The rooms were well arranged and
spacious, but the unhappiness and division
between the husband and wife had
impressed itself upon everything around them.
On entering it, one felt that the atmosphere
of the place was dreary and harsh.

Both husband and wife had a worn,
repressed look. The two sat in the same
room, only a table's width apart, but their
hearts, their thoughts, their feelings, were
evidently wide asunder.

The company had broken up into little
knots and were scattered about the room.
They were speaking of some changes in the
corps diplomatique, then of some rumours
of bad news from Sebastopol, some faint
whisperings of differences of opinion as to
the termination of the war further off
than ever according to some, imminent as
to others.

"What is your opinion, Madame?" said
some one, addressing Madame de Beaufort.

"I scarcely venture to give it," she said.
"It would be difficult to unravel the
intrigues on every side, or to obtain a clue as
to the probable result of it all. Of one thing I
am satisfied, that Russian spies and Russian
machinations are everywhere."

Presently De Beaufort went out, and the vis
itors began to leave.

Some one asked for the master of the
house.

"He has gone to the Mertons."

A faint smile might be read on some of
the faces in spite of the usual settled
vacuity of expression habitual to them.

"Are you going?" I asked Madame de
Beaufort, more by way of filling up an
uncomfortable silence, than from any other
motive.

"No. But doubtless you, are going to
mamma's reception tonight?"

"I am not indeed."