“I never see her but I feel a throb of pity for her,” declared Mr. Morris to Calvert. “’Twas a malignant fate that made her the wife of so dissolute a prince.  She is very handsome—­handsome enough to punish the duke for his irregularities, and she has, I think, the most beautiful arm in all Europe—­of which she is properly vain!  But what is a little vanity among so many virtues?—­for she is eminently virtuous, though not averse, I think, to seeking some consolation for her profound melancholy, for—­as she has confided to me—­she feels ’le besoin d’etre aime,’” and he smiled a little cynically, as men of the world are wont to smile at the confession of feminine weaknesses.  As for Mr. Calvert, that confession brought no smile to his lips, and, though he said nothing, he felt a sudden rush of pity for the unhappy lady, neglected and unloved despite her great position.  After all, duchesses are but women and must love and suffer and be content or miserable like common mortals, and men should be the last to blame them for that divine necessity of their beings—­that of loving and being loved.

“She has heard much of you, Ned,” went on Mr. Morris, “from Madame de Chastellux, from Lafayette, and lately from myself, and has expressed her desire to see you.  I need not tell you that such a wish is a command and so you must even go and pay your respects to royalty, my boy,” and he laughed as he clapped the young man on the shoulder.

That very evening Mr. Morris carried him off to the Palais Royal to the apartments of Madame de Chastellux, where he despatched a message to the Duchess to the effect that “Monsieur Morris, accompagne par Monsieur Calvert, visitent Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans chez Madame de Chastellux.”  After a few moments of waiting one of the Duchess’s men came with the request that Madame de Chastellux should bring the two gentlemen to her apartments.

They found Her Royal Highness there surrounded by a small company.  At her side was the Vicomte de Segur, who was essaying by the witty sallies and delightful drolleries for which he was so famous to bring a smile to her lips; but, although the rest of the company was convulsed by his brilliant nonsense, the Duchess’s pale face did not lose its serious expression until Mr. Morris, followed by Calvert, entered the room.  Then, indeed, a smile of pleasure lighted up her countenance, and it was with a most gracious cordiality that she welcomed both gentlemen.

“So this is your young compatriote, Monsieur, who vanquished Monsieur de St. Aulaire on the ice!” she said, looking at Mr. Morris and laughing with a certain malicious satisfaction.  She extended to Calvert the famously beautiful hand and arm, from which the soft, black lace fell away, revealing its exquisite roundness and whiteness and over which Mr. Morris bent low in salutation.  “We have heard of your prowess au patinage, Monsieur,” she continued, glancing at Calvert, and then, without