About the time that the ladies rose from the dinner-table in Hill
Street, Mr. Sidney Wilton entered the hall of the Clarendon Hotel, and
murmured an inquiry of the porter. Whereupon a bell was rung, and soon
a foreign servant appeared, and bowing, invited Mr. Wilton to ascend the
staircase and follow him. Mr. Wilton was ushered through an ante-chamber
into a room of some importance, lofty and decorated, and obviously
adapted for distinguished guests. On a principal table a desk was open
and many papers strewn about. Apparently some person had only recently
been writing there. There were in the room several musical instruments;
the piano was open, there was a harp and a guitar. The room was rather
dimly lighted, but cheerful from the steady blaze of the fire, before
which Mr. Wilton stood, not long alone, for an opposite door opened, and
a lady advanced leading with her left hand a youth of interesting mien,
and about twelve years of age. The lady was fair and singularly thin. It
seemed that her delicate hand must really be transparent. Her cheek
was sunk, but the expression of her large brown eyes was inexpressibly
pleasing. She wore her own hair, once the most celebrated in Europe,
and still uncovered. Though the prodigal richness of the tresses had
disappeared, the arrangement was still striking from its grace. That
rare quality pervaded the being of this lady, and it was impossible not
to be struck with her carriage as she advanced to greet her guest; free
from all affectation and yet full of movement and gestures, which might
have been the study of painters.

"Ah!" she exclaimed as she gave him her hand, which he pressed to his
lips, "you are ever faithful."

Seating themselves, she continued, "You have not seen my boy since he
sate upon your knee. Florestan, salute Mr. Wilton, your mother's most
cherished friend."