In a box not far from the Coolidge party there sat a royal-looking couple—an old gentleman, still hale and hearty, although upward of sixty-five, and a matron of perhaps a half-dozen years younger.
By the side of the latter, and assiduously attending to her wants, was a young man of about two-and-twenty.
It was no other than Adrian Dredmond!
He, too, had leveled his glass as the newcomers settled themselves in their places.
After one sweeping glance, he half started from his chair, with a low exclamation of pleasure.
“Whom do you see, Adrian?” asked the lady by his side.
“Some friends who came over in the same steamer with me, I believe,” he replied, taking another look, and a smile of pleasure curving his fine lips as his eye rested upon Brownie, who seemed to him in her elegant robes like some beautiful vision from another sphere.
“Americans?” demanded his companion, preparing to adjust her own glass.
“Yes, your ladyship,” was the quiet response.
“Ah!”