We sat aside in a recess of the lower hall, watching the throng as they passed:  haughty dowagers, distorted in lead and disfigured in silk and feathers nodding at the ceiling; accomplished beaus of threescore or more, carefully mended for the night by their Frenchmen at home; young ladies in gay brocades with round skirts and stiff, pear-shaped bodices; and youngsters just learning to ogle and to handle their snuff-boxes.  One by one their names were sent up and solemnly mouthed by the footman on the landing.  At length, when we had all but given her up, Dorothy arrived.  A hood of lavender silk heightened the oval of her face, and out from under it crept rebellious wisps of her dark hair.  But she was very pale, and I noticed for the first time a worn expression that gave me a twinge of uneasiness.  ’Twas then I caught sight of the duke, a surly stamp on his leaden features.  And after him danced Mr. Manners.  Dolly gave a little cry when she saw me.

“Oh!  Richard, I am so glad you are here.  I was wondering what had become of you.  And Comyn, too.”  Whispering to me, “Mamma has had a letter from Mrs. Brice; your grandfather has been to walk in the garden.”

“And Grafton?”

“She said nothing of your uncle,” she replied, with a little shudder at the name; “but wrote that Mr. Carvel was said to be better.  So there! your conscience need not trouble you for remaining.  I am sure he would wish you to pay a visit home.

“And I have to scold you, sir.  You have not been to Arlington Street for three whole days.”

It struck me suddenly that her gayety was the same as that she had worn to my birthday party, scarce a year agone.

“Dolly, you are not well!” I said anxiously.

She flung her head saucily for answer.  In the meantime his Grace, talking coldly to Comyn, had been looking unutterable thunders at me.  I thought of him awaking in the dew at Covent Garden, and could scarce keep from laughing in his face.  Mr. Marmaduke squirmed to the front.

“Morning, Richard,” he said, with a marked cordiality.  “Have you met the Duke of Chartersea?  No!  Your Grace, this is Mr. Richard Carvel.  His family are dear friends of ours in the colonies.”

To my great surprise, the duke saluted me quite civilly.  But I had the feeling of facing a treacherous bull which would gore me as soon as ever my back was turned.  He was always putting me in mind of a bull, with his short neck and heavy, hunched shoulders,—­and with the ugly tinge of red in the whites of his eyes.

“Mr. Manners tells me you are to remain awhile in London, Mr. Carvel,” he said, in his thick voice.

I took his meaning instantly, and replied in kind.

“Yes, your Grace, I have some business to attend to here.”

“Ah,” he answered; “then I shall see you again.”

“Probably, sir,” said I.

His Lordship watched this thrust and parry with an ill-concealed delight.  Dorothy’s face was impassive, expressionless.  As the duke turned to mount the stairs, he stumbled clumsily across a young man coming to pay his respects to Miss Manners, and his Grace went sprawling against the wall.