He stood watching the pretty glowing scene for a few minutes, and then went in to his solitary rechauffe dinner.  Coming out again half an hour or so later, he found everything changed.  The monkey boy and his organ were gone, the sun had set, twilight and mists were gathering in the valley, and the courtyard was deserted; but across the grey dusk, light was streaming through the muslin window curtains of the salon, the noise of laughter, and voices, and music came from within now, breaking the evening stillness; for everyone had gone indoors to the salon, where the gas was lighted, chairs and tables pushed out of the way, and Mademoiselle Cecile, the fat good-natured daughter of the proprietaire, already seated at the piano.  The hall outside fills with grinning waiters and maids, who have their share of the fun as they look in through the open door.  Round go the dancers, sliding and twirling on the smooth polished floor, and Mademoiselle Cecile’s fingers fly indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nodding her head to the music, and smiling as each familiar face glides past her.

Horace, who, after lingering awhile in the courtyard, had come indoors like the rest of the world, stood apart at the further end of the room, sufficiently entertained with looking on at the scene, which had the charm of novelty to his English eyes, and commenting to himself on the appearance of the dancers.

“But you do wrong not to dance, dear Monsieur, I assure you,” said his Belgian friend, coming up to him at the end of a polka, with the elderly Countess, who with her dingy lilac barege gown exchanged for a dingier lilac silk, and her sandy hair fuzzier than ever, had been dancing vigorously.  “Mademoiselle Cecile’s music is delicious,” he continued, “it positively inspires one; let me persuade you to attempt just one little dance.”

“Indeed, I would rather look on,” said Horace; “I can listen to Mademoiselle Cecile’s music all the same, and I do not care much for dancing, as I told you; besides, I don’t know anyone here.”

“If that be all,” cried the other eagerly, “I can introduce you to half a dozen partners in a moment; that lady that I have just been dancing with, for instance, will be charmed——­”

“Stop, I entreat you,” said the young Englishman, in alarm, as his friend was about to rush off; “I cannot indeed—­I assure you I am a very bad dancer; I am tired with my long walk too.”

“Ah, that walk,” said the Belgian, “I did wrong in advising you to take it; you prolonged it till you missed the table-d’hote dinner, and now you are too much fatigued to dance.”

“But I am very much amused as it is, I assure you,” insisted Graham.  “Do tell me something about all these people.  Are they all stopping at the hotel?”

His companion was delighted to give any information in his power.  No, not a third of the people were stopping at the hotel, the greater part had come over from Liege, and would go back there by the ten o’clock train.