re of a very plain and elegant brougham, drawn
by a pair of powerful horses, and driven by a man in sober livery. There
were no arms upon the panel; the window was open, but the interior was
obscure; the driver yawned behind his palm; and the young man was
already beginning to suppose himself the dupe of his own fancy, when a
hand, no larger than a child's and smoothly gloved in white, appeared in
a corner of the window and privily beckoned him to approach. He did so,
and looked in. The carriage was occupied by a single small and very
dainty figure, swathed head and shoulders in impenetrable folds of white
lace; and a voice, speaking low and silvery, addressed him in these
words:

"Open the door and get in."

"It must be," thought the young man, with an almost unbearable thrill,
"it must be that duchess at last!" Yet, although the moment was one to
which he had long looked forward, it was with a certain share of alarm
that he opened the door, and, mounting into the brougham, took his seat
beside the lady of the lace. Whether or no she had touched a spring, or
given some other signal, the young man had hardly closed the door before
the carriage, with considerable swiftness, and with a very luxurious and
easy movement on its springs, turned and began to drive towards the
west.

Somerset, as I have written, was not unprepared; it had long been his
particular pleasure to rehearse his conduct in the most unlikely
situations; and this, among others, of the patrician ravisher, was one
he had familiarly studied. Strange as it may seem, however, he could
find no apposite remark; and as the lady, on her side, vouchsafed no
further sign, they continued to drive in silence through the streets.
Except for alternate flashes from the passing lamps, the carriage was
plunged in obscurity; and beyond the fact that the fittings were
luxurious, and that the lady was singularly small and slender in person
and, all but one gloved hand, still swathed in her costly veil, the
young man could decipher no detail of an inspiring nature. The suspense
began to grow unbearable. Twice he cleared his throat, and twice the
whole resources of the language failed him. In similar scenes, when he
had forecast them on the theatre of fancy, his presence of mind had
always been complete, his eloquence remarkable; and at this disparity
between the rehearsal and the performance, he began to be seized with a
panic of apprehension. Here, on the very threshold o