th English and foreign. A large writing-table was littered
with notes and letters. An upright grand-piano stood open, with a
quantity of music upon it. On the thick Persian carpet before the fire
was stretched a very large St. Bernard dog, with his muzzle resting on
his paws and his eyes blinking drowsily in serene contentment.

As Hermione read the letters one by one her face showed a panorama of
expressions, almost laughably indicative of her swiftly passing thoughts.
Sometimes she smiled. Once or twice she laughed aloud, startling the dog,
who lifted his massive head and gazed at her with profound inquiry. Then
she shook her head, looked grave, even sad, or earnest and full of
sympathy, which seemed longing to express itself in a torrent of
comforting words. Presently she put the letters together, tied them up
carelessly with a piece of twine, and put them back into the drawer from
which she had taken them. Just as she had finished doing this the door of
the room, which was ajar, was pushed softly open, and a dark-eyed,
Eastern-looking boy dressed in livery appeared.

"What is it, Selim?" asked Hermione, in French.

"Monsieur Artois, madame."

"Emile!" cried Hermione, getting up out of her chair with a sort of eager
slowness. "Where is he?"

"He is here!" said a loud voice, also speaking French.

Selim stood gracefully aside, and a big man stepped into the room and
took the two hands which Hermione stretched out in his.

"Don't let any one else in, Selim," said Hermione to the boy.

"Especially the little Townly," said Artois, menacingly.

"Hush, Emile! Not even Miss Townly if she calls, Selim."

Selim smiled with grave intelligence at the big man, said, "I understand,
madame," and glided out.

"Why, in Heaven's name, have you--you, pilgrim of the Orient--insulted
the East by putting Selim into a coat with buttons and cloth trousers?"
exclaimed Artois, still holding Hermione's hands.

"It's an outrage, I know. But I had to. He was stared at and followed,
and he actually minded it. As soon as I found out that, I trampled on all
my artistic prejudices, and behold him--horrible but happy! Thank you for
coming--thank you."

She let his hands go, and they stood for a moment looking at each other
in the firelight.

Artois was a tall man of about forty-three, with large, almost Herculean
limbs, a handsome face, with regular but rather heavy features, and very
big gray eyes, that always looked penetrating and