They entered the drawing room.

It was a family party that was assembled there, with the sole exception of the Viscount Vincent, who indeed had become a daily visitor, a recognized suitor of Miss Merlin, and almost one of their set.

As soon as Mr. Brudenell had paid his respects to each member of the family, Lord Vincent advanced frankly and cordially to greet him as an old acquaintance, saying: 

“I had just learned from Miss Merlin of your arrival.  You must have left London very soon after I did.”

Before Mr. Brudenell could reply, Judge Merlin came up with Ishmael and said: 

“Lord Vincent, excuse me.  Mr. Brudenell, permit me—­Mr. Worth, of the Washington bar.”

Herman Brudenell turned and confronted Ishmael Worth.  And father and son stood face to face.

Herman’s face was quivering with irrepressible yet unspeakable emotion; Ishmael’s countenance was serene and smiling.

No faintest instinct warned Nora’s son that he stood in the presence of his father.  He saw before him a tall, thin, fair-complexioned, gentlemanly person, whose light hair was slightly silvered, and whose dark brown eyes, in such strange contrast to the blond hair, were bent with interest upon him.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, young gentleman.  Permit me to offer you my congratulations upon your very decided success,” said Mr. Brudenell, giving his hand.

Ishmael bowed.

“Brudenell, will you take my daughter in to dinner?” said Judge Merlin, seeing that Lord Vincent had already given his arm to Mrs. Middleton.

Herman, glad to be relieved from a position that was beginning to overcome his self-possession, bowed to Miss Merlin, who smilingly accepted his escort.

Judge Merlin drew Bee’s arm within his own and followed.  And Mr. Middleton, with a comic smile, crooked his elbow to Ishmael, who laughed instead of accepting it, and those two walking side by side brought up the rear.

That dinner passed very much as other dinners of the same class.  Judge Merlin was cordial, Mr. Middleton facetious, Lord Vincent gracious, Mr. Brudenell silent and apparently abstracted, and Ishmael was attentive—­a listener rather than a speaker.  The ladies as usual at dinner-parties, where the conversation turns upon politics, were rather in the background, and took an early opportunity of withdrawing from the table, leaving the gentlemen to finish their political discussion over their wine.

The latter, however, did not linger long; but soon followed the ladies to the drawing room, where coffee was served.  And soon after the party separated for the evening.  Herman Brudenell withdrew to his chamber with one idea occupying him—­his son.  Since the death of Nora had paralyzed his affections, Herman Brudenell had loved no creature on earth until he met her son upon this evening.  Now the frozen love of years melted and flowed into one strong, impetuous stream towards him—­her son—­his son!  Oh, that he might dare to claim him!