Ishmael looked interested, and his smiling eyes turned from Claudia to Lord Vincent in good-humored inquiry.

“I allude to Mr. Herman Brudenell of Brudenell Hall, Maryland, who has been living in England lately.  There is a very striking likeness between him and yourself; so striking that I might have mistaken one for the other; but that you are larger, and, now that I see you closely, darker, than he is.  Perhaps you are relatives,” said Lord Vincent.

“Oh, no; not at all; not the most distant.  I am not even acquainted with the gentleman; never set eyes on him in my life!” said Ishmael, smiling ingenuously; for of course he thought he was speaking the exact truth.

But oh, Herman! oh, Nora! if he from the nethermost parts of the earth—­if she from the highest heaven could have heard that honest denial of his parentage from the truthful lips of their gifted son!

“There is something incomprehensible in the caprices of nature, in making people who are in no way related so strongly resemble each other,” said Lord Vincent.

“There is,” admitted Ishmael.

At this moment the music ceased, the dancers left the floor, and there was a considerable movement of the company toward the back of the room.

“I think they are going to supper.  Will you permit me to take you in, Miss Merlin?” said Lord Vincent, offering his arm.

“If you please,” said Claudia, rising to take it.

“Shall I have the honor, dear Bee?” inquired Ishmael.

Beatrice answered by putting her hand within Ishmael’s arm.  And they followed the company to the supper room—­scene of splendor, magnificence, and luxury that baffles all description, except that of the reporter of the “Republican Court Journal,” who, in speaking of the supper, said: 

“In all his former efforts, it was granted by everyone, that Devizac surpassed all others; but in this supper at Judge Merlin’s, Devizac surpassed himself!”

After supper Ishmael danced the last quadrille with Miss Tourneysee; and when that was over, the time-honored old contra-dance of Sir Roger de Coverly was called, in which nearly all the company took part—­Ishmael dancing with a daughter of a distinguished senator, and a certain Captain Todd dancing with Bee.

When the last dance was over, the hour being two o’clock in the morning, the party separated, well pleased with their evening’s entertainment.  Ishmael went up to his den, and retired to bed:  but ah! not to repose.  The unusual excitement of the evening, the light, the splendor, the luxury, the guests, and among them all the figures of Claudia and the viscount, haunting memory and stimulating imagination, forbade repose.  Ever, in the midst of all his busy, useful, aspiring life he was conscious, deep in his heart, of a gnawing anguish, whose name was Claudia Merlin.  To-night this deep-seated anguish tortured him like the vulture of Prometheus.  One vivid picture was always before his mind’s eye—­the sofa, with the beautiful figure of Claudia reclining upon it, and the stately form of the viscount, leaning with deferential admiration over her.  The viscount’s admiration of the beauty was patent; he did not attempt to conceal it.  Claudia’s pride and pleasure in her conquest were also undeniable; she took no pains to veil them.