of miscellaneous rubbish—­such were my friend’s surroundings; and such, had I speculated upon them beforehand, I should have expected to find them.  Dalrymple, in the meanwhile, despatched his letter with characteristic rapidity.  His pen rushed over the paper like a dragoon charge, nor was once laid aside till both letter and address were finished.  Just as he was sealing it, a note was brought to him by his servant—­a slender, narrow, perfumed note, written on creamy paper, and adorned on the envelope with an elaborate cypher in gold and colors.  Had I lived in the world of society for the last hundred seasons, I could not have interpreted the appearance of that note more sagaciously.

“It is from a lady,” said I to myself.  Then seeing Dalrymple tear up his own letter immediately after reading it, and begin another, I added, still in my own mind—­“And it is from the lady to whom he was writing.”

Presently he paused, laid his pen aside, and said:—­

“Arbuthnot, would you like to go with me to-morrow evening to one or two soirees?”

“Can your Civilizer provide me with my evening suit in time?”

“He?  The great Michaud?  Why, he would equip you for this evening, if it were necessary!”

“In that case, I shall be very glad.”

“Bon! I will call for you at ten o’clock; so do not forget to leave me your address.”

Whereupon he resumed his letter.  When it was written, he returned to the subject.

“Then I will take you to-morrow night,” said he, “to a reception at Madame Rachel’s.  Hers is the most beautiful house in Paris.  I know fifty men who would give their ears to be admitted to her salons.”

Even in the wilds of Saxonholme I had heard and read of the great tragedienne whose wealth vied with the Rothschilds, and whose diamonds might have graced a crown.  I had looked forward to the probability of beholding her from afar off, if she was ever to be seen on the boards of the Theatre Francais; but to be admitted to her presence—­received in her house—­introduced to her in person ... it seemed ever so much too good to be true!

Dalrymple smiled good-naturedly, and put my thanks aside.

“It is a great sight,” said he, “and nothing more.  She will bow to you—­she may not even speak; and she would pass you the next morning without remembering that she had ever seen you in her life.  Actresses are a race apart, my dear fellow, and care for no one who is neither rich nor famous.”

“I never imagined,” said I, half annoyed, “that she would take any notice of me at all.  Even a bow from such a woman is an event to be remembered.”

“Having received that bow, then,” continued Dalrymple, “and having enjoyed the ineffable satisfaction of returning it, you can go on with me to the house of a lady close by, who receives every Monday evening.  At her soirees you will meet pleasant and refined people, and having been once introduced by me, you will, I have no doubt, find the house open to you for the future.”