ere her voice was likewise
turned away), "this is Mr. Bunker, the nephew of an old friend and
neighbor in Upshire;" (the voice again turned to him), "you will take
Miss Morecamp in. My dear" (once again averted), "I must find some one
else to console poor dear Lord Billingtree with." Here the hostess's
voice was drowned by fresh arrivals.

Bewildered and confused as he was, standing in this empty desert of
a drawing-room, yet encompassed on every side by human voices, so
marvelous was the power of suggestion, he seemed to almost feel the
impact of the invisible crowd. He was trying desperately to realize his
situation when a singularly fascinating voice at his elbow unexpectedly
assisted him. It was evidently his dinner partner.

"I suppose you must be tired after your journey. When did you arrive?"

"Only a few hours ago," said Paul.

"And I dare say you haven't slept since you arrived. One doesn't on the
passage, you know; the twenty hours pass so quickly, and the experience
is so exciting--to US at least. But I suppose as an American you are
used to it."

Paul gasped. He had passively accepted the bodiless conversation,
because it was at least intelligible! But NOW! Was he going mad?

She evidently noticed his silence. "Never mind," she continued, "you
can tell me all about it at dinner. Do you know I always think that
this sort of thing--what we're doing now,--this ridiculous formality
of reception,--which I suppose is after all only a concession to our
English force of habit,--is absurd! We ought to pass, as it were,
directly from our houses to the dinner-table. It saves time."

"Yes--no--that is--I'm afraid I don't follow you," stammered Paul.

There was a slight pout in her voice as she replied: "No matter now--we
must follow them--for our host is moving off with Lady Billingtree, and
it's our turn now."

So great was the illusion that he found himself mechanically offering
his arm as he moved through the empty room towards the door. Then he
descended the staircase without another word, preceded, however, by
the sound of his host's voice. Following this as a blind man might, he
entered the dining-room, which to his discomfiture was as empty as the
salon above. Still following the host's voice, he dropped into a chair
before the empty table, wondering what variation of the Barmecide feast
was in store for him. Yet the hum of voices from the vacant chairs
around the board so strongly impressed him that he