It is to be supposed that he was sitting down to the task he had set himself--to forget Farlingford.
There was a great reception at the Hotel Gemosac that night, and after twenty years of brooding silence the rooms, hastily set in order, were lighted up.
There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was not vouched for by a noble name or by history.

As the old man presented them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which the world will never forget so long as history lives.
And here, again, was the subtle difference.

They no longer talked to Loo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice.

Men made their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes.
Some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing.

Others embarked on such a speech and paused--faltered, and passed on gulping something down in their throats.
Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips and white faces--no coquetry in their eyes.