It was Zenobia's last reception for the season; on the morrow she was
about to depart for her county, and canvass for her candidates. She was
still undaunted, and never more inspiring. The excitement of the times
was reflected in her manner. She addressed her arriving guests as they
made their obeisance to her, asked for news and imparted it before she
could be answered, declared that nothing had been more critical
since '93, that there was only one man who was able to deal with the
situation, and thanked Heaven that he was not only in England, but in
her drawing-room.

Ferrars, who had been dining with his patron, Lord Pomeroy, and had
the satisfaction of feeling, that at any rate his return to the new
parliament was certain, while helping himself to coffee could not
refrain from saying in a low tone to a gentleman who was performing the
same office, "Our Whig friends seem in high spirits, baron."

The gentleman thus addressed was Baron Sergius, a man of middle age. His
countenance was singularly intelligent, tempered with an expression
mild and winning. He had attended the Congress of Vienna to represent
a fallen party, a difficult and ungracious task, but he had shown
such high qualities in the fulfilment of his painful duties--so much
knowledge, so much self-control, and so much wise and unaffected
conciliation--that he had won universal respect, and especially with the
English plenipotentiaries, so that when he visited England, which he did
frequently, the houses of both parties were open to him, and he was as
intimate with the Whigs as he was with the great Duke, by whom he was
highly esteemed.

"As we have got our coffee, let us sit down," said the baron, and they