On these faces sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed, either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.
Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad mouth.

Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers.

Suzanne's eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinised every box.
Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled herself quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the audience itself.
"Ah, Lord Grenville," said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared in the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more _A_ PROPOS.

Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest news from France." The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with the ladies.
"Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst.

The massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day." Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her own misguided country.
"Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to hear all that--and my poor husband still in that awful country.