he would glance up eagerly, only to feel his heart sink lower and
lower. I don't know how many times he was disappointed. The waiter
ahemmed politely. Warburton, in order to have an excuse to remain, at
length hit upon a partridge and a pint of Chablis.

Nine o'clock. Was it possible that the colonel and his daughter were
dining in their rooms? Perish the possibility! And he looked in vain
for the count. A quarter-past nine. Mr. Robert's anxiety was becoming
almost unendurable. Nine-thirty. He was about to surrender in
despair. His partridge lay smoking on his plate, and he was on the
point of demolishing it, when, behold! they came. The colonel entered
first, then his daughter, her hand--on--the--arm--of--the--count!
Warburton never fully described to me his feelings at that moment;
but, knowing him as I do, I can put together a very, respectable
picture of the chagrin and consternation that sat on his countenance.

"To think of being nearly six days aboard," Mr. Robert once bawled at
me, wrathfully, "and not to know that that Russian chap knew her!" It
_was_ almost incredible that such a thing should happen.

The three sat down at a table seven times removed from Warburton's.
He could see only an adorable profile and the colonel's handsome but
care-worn face. The count sat with his back turned. In that black
evening gown she was simply beyond the power of adjectives. What
shoulders, what an incomparable throat! Mr. Robert's bird grew cold;
the bouquet from his glass fainted and died away. How her face
lighted when she laughed, and she laughed frequently! What a
delicious curve ran from her lips to her young bosom! But never once
did she look in his direction. Who invented mirrors, the Egyptians? I
can not say. There were mirrors in the room, but Mr. Robert did not