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 through his labours, and accompanied him downstairs to the great hall, where Slap-Jack had told him he would find dinner prepared. His host and hostess were already there. Of Lady Hamilton's greeting he was unconscious, for his head swam, and he dared not lift his eyes to her face; but Sir George's welcome was hearty, even boisterous. Florian could not help thinking that, had he been in the hospitable baronet's place, he would have been less delighted with the arrival of a visitor.

Whatever people's feelings may be, however, they go to dinner all the same. Slap-Jack, an old grey-headed butler, and two or three livery servants stood in attendance. The dishes were uncovered, and Florian found himself seated at a round table in the centre of the fine old hall like a man in a dream, confused indeed and vaguely bewildered, yet conscious of no surprise at the novelty of his situation, and taking in all its accessories with a glance. He was aware of the stag's skeleton frontlet, crowned by its gigantic antlers, beetling, bleached, and grim, over the door; of the oak panelling and stained glass, the high carved chimney-*piece, with its grotesque supporters, the vast logs smouldering in embers on the hearth, the dressed deer-skins, that served for rug or carpet wherever a covering seemed needed on the polished floor; nay, even of a full-length picture by Vandyck, representing the celebrated Count Anthony Hamilton, looking his very politest, in a complete suit of plate armour, with a yard or two of cambric round his neck, and an enormous wig piling its hyacinthine curls above his forehead, to descend in coarse cascades of hair below his waist.

All this had Florian taken note of before he could conscientiously declare that he had looked his hostess in the face.

It made him start to hear the sweet voice once more, frank, cordial, and caressing as of old. One of the many charms which Cerise exercised over her fellow-creatures was the gentle, kindly tone in which she spoke to all.

"You have just come from France, you say, Father Ambrose. Pardon, Monsieur de St. Croix. How am I to address you? From our dear France, George. Only think. He has scarcely left it a week."