making his way rapidly towards us. It was George; he came to a stand-still as he reached us, and so did my chair.
George merely touched the hand which I—forgetting that it was not necessary to go through the formality of shaking hands with a foreigner—extended to him.
"I have just come from your apartment," he cried, "and I found that some letters had arrived for you, which I took the liberty of bringing."
"Thank you," said I. "Mine can wait, but Judith is always impatient for hers. Is there one for her?"
"Yes," showing me an envelope with an Austrian stamp on it.
"This," I went on, examining mine, "is from Mr. Tremaine. He has become a most devoted correspondent lately. Judith and politics are his only subjects, so I will consign his letter to my pocket," suiting the action to the word. "By the way," I said, looking at the two gentlemen who were standing in front of me, "I wonder what would become of us all if we had not Judith as a subject to converse and write about. I know, Count Piloff, you are longing to ask where she is. You will find her somewhere on the other side of that island, with Mr. Novissilsky."
"Such a dismissal," cried George, with a good-natured laugh, "cannot be disobeyed." And, with a slight bow, he skated away.
The wrinkle in Mr. Thurber's nose made its appearance as he inquired,—
"Why did you send him off so suddenly?"
