“Mrs. Middleton, Lord Vincent.  Miss Merlin, Lord Vincent.”

The viscount bowed low to these ladies, who courtesied in turn and resumed their seats.

“My old friend, Judge Merlin, Lord Vincent,” then said the plain, matter-of-fact old President.

The judge and the viscount simultaneously bowed, and then, these formalities being over, seats were found for the two strangers, and the whole group fell into an easy chat—­subject of discussion the old question that is sure to be argued whenever the old world and the new meet—­the rival merits of monarchies and republics.  The discussion grew warm, though the disputants remained courteous.  The viscount grew bored, and gradually dropped out of the argument, leaving the subject in the hands of the President and the minister, who, of course, had taken opposite sides, the minister representing the advantages of a monarchical form of government, and the President contending for a republican one.  The viscount noticed that a large portion of the company were promenading in a procession round and round the room to the music of one of Beethoven’s grand marches.  It was monotonous enough; but it was better than sitting there and listening to the vexed question whether “the peoples” were capable of governing themselves.  So he turned to Miss Merlin with a bow and smile, saying: 

“Shall we join the promenade?  Will you so far honor me?”

“With pleasure, my lord,” replied Miss Merlin.

And he rose and gave her his arm, and they walked away.  And for the third time that evening Claudia became the target of all sorts of glances—­glances of admiration, glances of hate.  She had been led out by the young English minister; then by the old President; and now she was promenading with the lion of the evening, the only titled person at this republican court, the Viscount Vincent.  And she a newcomer, a mere girl, not twenty years old!  It was intolerable, thought all the ladies, young and old, married or single.

But if the beautiful Claudia was the envy of all the women, the handsome Vincent was not less the envy of all the men present.  “Puppy”; “coxcomb”; “Jackanape”; “swell”; “Viscount, indeed! more probably some foreign blackleg or barber”; “It is perfectly ridiculous the manner in which American girls throw themselves under the feet of these titled foreign paupers,” were some of the low-breathed blessings bestowed upon young Lord Vincent.  And yet these expletives were not intended to be half so malignant as they might have sounded.  They were but the impulsive expressions of transient vexation at seeing the very pearl of beauty, on the first evening of her appearance, carried off by an alien.