We alighted, passed up a wide, handsome public staircase, and stopped at Numéro 2 on the second landing; the first floor comprising the abode of I know not what “ prince Russe ,” as Graham informed me. On ringing the bell at a second great door, we were admitted to a suite of very handsome apartments. Announced by a servant in livery, we entered a drawing-room whose hearth glowed with an English fire, and whose walls gleamed with foreign mirrors. Near the hearth appeared a little group; a slight form sunk in a deep armchair, one or two women busy about it, the iron-grey gentleman anxiously looking on.

“Where is Harriet? I wish Harriet would come to me,” said the girlish voice, faintly.

“Where is Mrs. Hurst?” demanded the gentleman impatiently and somewhat sternly of the manservant who had admitted us.

“I am sorry to say she is gone out of town, sir; my young lady gave her leave till tomorrow.”