"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7319, 4 February 1902, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

THE TAMAZING DUCHESS.

(By MRS C. N. WILLIAMSON.)

•"it's the most outrageous piece- of impudence I ever heard of !" exclaimed Lord Teneriffe. "They say he's very handsome, re- - marked the Duchess. | "As if that had anything to do with it!" said Teneriffe. "It's never irrelevant to be good looking," eaid the Duchess. " Tlie man's insulted you, and must pay for it." "Pardon me, he has paid. Hes paid jne a great compliment." " He deserves to have his neck wrung. "He deserves to have my portrait bung." " Of course you are only trying to mako wae angry." "Really, as w. re on the question of • tights, have you the right to be angry?", "Tm only mortal." "And we're talking of one who may be ; " immortal— if I give him the chanoe." "That's not to be spoken of. Well set the police on him." "We?" " "Diana, do you want to drive me oub •of my senses?" "I'm not sure you need driving. Ancl " pray, talking of rights, when* did I sell you the patent of my name?" "Oh, pkase, please, won't you two good, people tell me what you're quarrelling . about?" pleaded Lord Teneriffe's sister before her brother could spoil all his chances. V. . _ „ Ladv Jane Rock- had dropped in, finding Lord Teneriffe with the Duchess of Laleham; and as Lady Jane was a person of ' no importance, save to fill in spare corners dud awkward pauses, the football of argument was not to be stopped by the necessity of providing her with a cup of tea. For once Lord Teneriffe thought his sister worth the trouble of an explanation. It was a comfort to flaunt his grievance even beiore her. "Why, some impertinent cad of a painter *"He is not a ca.d.' I. aw, informed that he comes of a very old Cornish family, H«'« the seventh son of a seventh son, or •something (which may account for his -genius), and genius covers ait least as many «ins as charity." _ "A painter fellow who stared at tbe " Duchess in the Park and dogged her footsteps in Bond Street " . "I invariably drive in Bond Street* "Then went* home , and daubed something on canvas, which he had the cheek to call her portrait " . . . '"He didn't. It's a faney picture, with jny face from memory." . "And now he has the colossal impudence to intend exhibiting without so much a. by yonr leave or " y . j ■*..... "Yeu see, Jane, dear, it isn't as it it ■were actually my portrait, A mere _ resemblance. I shouldn't have heard ot it if it hadn't been for Mrs DykejTaylor, whoknows all the artists, and actors, and ' writers, and really delightful people, bhes so interest**, in this young manthinks he is going to be great He has onlv been in London a few months, and he's just finishing this picture, which Mrs Dyke-Taylor is confident will create a tremendous sensation. He's taken rooms in Bond Street for a private exhibition— cne room for Cornish and Italian sketches, and : tfce other for this big portrait " " I thought you said it wasn't a portrait," broke in Lord* Teneriffe. "It isn't. That was merely a slip of tHe tongue," returned the Duchess sharply. ." And this fellow intends to trade on the fact that you are one of the most • beautiful and popular women in England, to get iWs-elf nm after. He tells his etory to Mrs Dyke-Taylor, a choap way cf advertising it ail over Xondon. She's better than handbills, that woman '•' ' "She's very gosd-natured and ready to help talent, *So yen can understand, Jane, how I feel. Here's an unknown genius, only wanting an opportunity to succeed. J It would be nothing short of cruelty to deny him that opportunity. Of courre, I - '• can't take open notice of the picture. I shall simply ignore the whole thing." " Then, dear/' ventured Lady Jane, " do you mean to let the ycung man have liis exhibition?" "I shall know nothing about it," Lady Jane looked at ber brother, and lier brother tugged at his moustache. He •'• -vnas not engaged to the Duchess, but she allowed him to think that he was under consideration. Perhaps other men thought ' the saime of themselves, but Teneriffe hoped not; and he believed that the way to ' - succeed with a wilful young woman was to show her that you were her master. At least, that had been his theory up to the present, and he had acted upon it in the matter now under discussion. Bufc something in the Duchess's eyes rather than Ibe. words made bim wonder if, after all, he had been somewhat premature. Not that he regretted what he had done ; he .-•' m'erely felt that this was not a moment in which to announce it. And perhaps the Duchesg never would find out. When his sister went, be went also, witb :*, fine air of being misjudged, but. too proud for self -justification. : Hardly had they gone, when the post wW brought in to the Duchess. As usual, "there were a great many invitations and ■ letters, but only one in a new hand. It ■was a hand with possibilities, so thought her Grace, a'nd gave it precedence. ■She read it once, twice, three times, &n<J her eyes were stars, her checks roses. After the third reading, she opened a drawer in * the desk which stood in her boudoir window, and slipped in the- letter. This drawer might suitably have been labelled the drawer of romance ; but when she bad turned the key, she changied her mind, took ".-■' out the letter and gave it 'another drawer •all to itself. And really it was unique. It would have seemed a singular coinci- . dence that she should have heard just today from the artist who had stolen her beauty, had she nofc read between the lines

.V and guessed why the letter had been sent. \ She was angry with Lord Teneriffe for presuming to interfere; for, of course, though the artist did not say so, Lord Teneriffe had heen high-handed enough to write yesterday (when she had first- told hini about the picture) threatening the painter with legal proceedings if he dared to exhibit. But she was not angry with' the artist. He had written her a charming letter, refreshingly ingenious or cleverly studied — ■ '■... she chose to believe the form.r— beggiii^ her to come and to seo the picture, which must be its own apology. Having only seen the Duchess from a distance, he — Paui Trevanion — had not guessed that his memory had served him well enough to produce an actual likeness. His glimpse of her head had merely been the realising of an ideal which, ■until he saw her Grace, he had never hoped .-;-. to find out of dreamland. To perpetuating ■ this ideal on canvas according to his 1 W ability, he pleaded guilty. For wishing tp

I let the world see what he hoped was his masterpiece, to that crime he must also confess. But the picture itself jvas his defence, and its own. Having heard that the Duchess of Laleham desired + o restrain him from exhibiting a picture supposed to bear a certain resemblance to her features, he begged that she would • herself judge his work, giving it a chance to plead for him. To-morrow was the day fixed for the opening of his exhibition; but if the Duchess came an hour before the public were to be admitted, and, having seen the picture, -asked him to withdraw it, the room it adorned should — even at that late moment —be closed. The Ducherss rose and gazed at herself in the mirror. She was twenty-six, but looked mors like- a girl tban a widow. She was indeed ari amazing beauty, effacing all rival claimants. As Horace .Walpole once said of another great lady, so it was with Diana, Duchess of Laleham. "Her youth, vigour, flowing good nature, sense, lively modesty and modest familiarity, made her a phenomenon." But, alas for her friends and lovers, some of her ways were as amaz'ng as her beauty. Those nearest her never knew what she would be doing next, and she knew as little of that as the others. One did what one pleased, and that Was enough fbr the world. Now it pleas.d the Duchess to criticise her own reflection in the glass. She knew that she was lovely in the flesh, but disappointing in photographs ; and such artists as had counterfeited her in oils, pastels, xind pencil had missed the elusive charm which rendered hor irresistible. Curiosity ; pricked her. She wanted to know what Paul Trevanion ,had made of her, and perhaps— a little— whether Paul Trevanion were as handsome as Mrs DykeTaylor described him. She determined to avail herself of the artist's, invitation. That night she went to a dinner, the opera, and ' two balls.; Mrs Dyke-Taylor, must have talked, for everybody had heard 1 of the picture and eagerly enquired .whether she ••meant to sanction its exhibition. But ' Diana, Duchess of Laleham, was not to be easilv " drawn;-" She smiled^ sphinx-like, and said that the Story was news to' her. Ibis, when gossip was whispering that Lord Teneriffe had challenged the Cornish genius to cross the Channel-H^ foils)— with him ! • • ■ The Duchess went to bed at four and rose at eight, radiant as, the June morning that shone upon her. Her vitality was proof against>ore.than a dinner, the opera and two balls.. '.'■*■ Mr Trevanion's exhibition was to .open for tho public at eleven; therefore, to carry out his suggestion she must be there^at ten. •- '"'.,,' . '*_. * When, after herbath of cold ram-watei and Eau-de-cologne, 'Diana gave herself to the hands of her maid, she hesitated at -tlie question -of what she should wear. JHw.: memory, hovered on some words of Mrs j Dyke-Taylor's, who had described her counterfeit's -apparel. What had ty» lady said? Oh. a huge Mack picture bat, with drooping feathers; a trailing whito muslin frock, witli a flowing lace fichu; a touch of • pale blue at th. waist, and a great bunch of pink roses in the hand. ■ Twin to the recollection grew the wish that' the artist might see how poor was l-is work compared. with that of -Nature; aid the war to cut this impression clcai as c^neo 'was to mark and to accentuate- a likeness. "'■._■_.■• „_. "The whit* muslin and. laoe that .came homo from' Elisejlast Saturday," she said to tho ever-admiring Josephine. Its time I wore the thing; and there's a blue chif- ! fon sash t.bat plight go well with it, . The sash did go with it to perfection, albeit the combination had cot been Eliso s ; and Josephine had to confess, after an argument, that the big black hat, which, turned far up on one side and down at the other, was even /more charming on her mistress's 'chestnut 'hair than the white t-ujle slio had advised, y , „ y On the way to the gallery in i3ond street, . Diana stoDpsd 'her brougham and bought a ' bunch of Lk France roses ; for none of the many flowers that had been V-l at her shrine that morning pleased her capricious fancy. •• ■_» The door which admitted the public to the gallery was inhospitably closed, and the Duchess's" footman touched the bell while his mistress looked from her carriage window, her heart beating pleasantly in .time to the adventure. Twice the bell was rung before the door opened, and then the smart youth in dark ga-een and r shining buttons who answered the impatient repetition showed so blanched and stricken a countenance as to tell the Duchess's instinct tnat something extraordinary had happened. The footman announced his mistress's presence with pride, adding that she was expected ; but the boy scarcely seemed to hear. His eyes were .large and startled, his: mien nervous. Whether he were impressed by the lady's beauty, her great name and elegance, or stupefied by .ome event which was still more real for him than present actualities, it. was bard to tell ; but be let the Duchfess sweep past him without an effort to precede, or to delay her progress. A door stood half open. Diana glanced in and saw many framed paintings, rich with colour, hanging on a dark grey wall. Surely 'here Was the cuter room, with the lesser treasures of Mr Paul Trevanion's ex- 1 hibition. " ' . After -pausing aa instant,' she pushed t'ne door farlier open and crossed the thi-esbold. 'One comprehensive glance was enough to convince the Duchess that Mrs Dyke-Taylor had told the truth -about Mr Trevanion: Vfie could paint; ho was a genius. In other circumstances Diana would have delighted to linger among the Cornish and. Italian sketches, but now site was Testiess. Her -beautiful eyes roved aimlessly, fastening at last upon a wide, curtained doorway at the fart-lie. end of the room. One of . these ' curtains hung straight down ; the other was looped back, showung a yellow blur of .artificial light. •' '•My picture is there," Diana said to herself. "Biro where is Mr Trevanion?" [Not a sound proceeded from behind the red curtains, yet.it was from tihe room they hid* that an electrical atmosphere of mystery seemed to come tingling, like a message of wireless, telegraphy. „-'.. Diana moved slowly towards the draped 'doorway, her kces trailing along the carpet; and wTs.li a hand uplifted to push back the -.fallen curtain, she paused again, hardly knowing what to make of the scene revealed to •her by shaded gaslight. Fronting her was a great gold frame-r---empty ; leaning against the wall close by, a wooden stretcher with a Mg or two of painted canvas clinging to the edges, while before the denud'ed frame was a chair into w'aich a man had thrown himself,. his folded arms resting pn the back, 'hds bowed dark head upon ii is arms. Diana's eyes took in the picture ; and, as she began dimly to comprehend what might be ths meaning of the empty frame, the torn b'.ts pf canvas on the stretcher, she uttered a,, faint exclamation. Ifc was very faint — scarcely louder than a

w_T:9pen, yet the man in the chair heard it, sprang up, wheeled quickly, and started with surprise at the figure in tlie doorway. "The Duchess of Laleham!" he ejacu-

lated. "'Mr Trevanion?" she took him up, questioning!}-. Yet ihe was sure of lus •identity. Mrs Dyke-Taylor had not said too much in stating that he was handsome. He was, Diana told herself, exactly like the portraits of Lord Byron— Lord Byron whose glory of mind and person she had grudged to tim'. and death since girlish days when he had been first adopted as her hero of bygone romance. She dropped 'her eyelashes lest she should Stare, all the more so because Trevanion was staring. She expected' him to speak, and 1 waited, bufc when no word* came she broke the silence. "You wrote asking me to come and see a picture " (this with a faint emphasis on the indefinite article, as if it might- have been any picture ; really, the subject of it was forgotten). "Where is ifc?" " If I could answer tbat, I would give my right hand, and such cunning as it has !" There was such passion in eyes and voice that Diana thrilled responsively. Trevanion's despairing look caught hers and held it. Her lips parted, but she did not speak. ': " My picture has been stolen," he said. "•Stolen?" came a quick, whispering echo. ".Stolen in the night. I came here half-an-hour ago to say ' Good-morning ' to it, to worship it, for I 'did worship it, Duchess— my feeling was nothing else. I unlocked tihe door of t'he outer room with the key, which. I kept. • All seemed to be well; I lighted the gas, and then— l saw this.' His gesture indicated- the empty frame, the wooden stretcher; and Diana's eyes were on the. artist, rather than <tfhe work of the thief who had robbed him. " Cruel !" she exclaimed, and- "was conscious that -she, was strangely moved— not with disappointment afc>mi-ssing wha;fc she had come to see, not because the picture was gone, and vet, scmeiliow, because of the artist's loss, or because^of the way t!h-at he felt it. . "Anything else might have been ta_ten, and I would not have cared. But this — this!— it was my life." . Diana's pulses gave a throb. Her picture had been his life.' " Who can have stolen* it?" she asked. " I have no clue.' The window had been broken with V stone, near the lock which fastened it. Then it had been deliberately unlocked and opened. The picture was cut oufc cf the frame burried-ly, so that the canvas was torn. I have seen the people who sleep in tbe hou3e ; they know nothing. The news came as a shock to them." " Shall you offer a reward for the picture's return?'' ' ".I can offer no reward that would tem-pt such- a thief. He can leave England and feell the picture for far more than I could afford' to give for> its return." "Have you an enemy ?" asked Diana. . " No, D'uchess. lam not a man of importance." Diana looked at him and \ thought he wronged -himself. He was assuming vast importance in her eyes. " And do you sus- . peet no one ?" she went on. "Nfo one. Unless — — " he stopped abruptly. "Unless?" With' a flash' of enlightenment her brain supplied- at the seltae instant his suspicion and his- reason, fof hiding it from 'her. " You mean -" her lips remained parted, the name unprononnced ; but his dark -eyes meeting hers told, asters told him, that the same thougbt was in both minds. "If he has had this thing done/ I will never speak, to bim again," said .the Duchess. ' y "Yet I could find it in my heart— not quite yet, not to-day, nor to-morrow, but some time when it -hurts less— to forgive bim, if Tumour speais truth," *l^aul Tre-.,'van-ion's gaze was -fistful;., and' Diana read its meaning as wooien mostly read, men's meanings — by instinct. Yet she put a question— -."What does rumour say? ...-- "That I *ihavc'no right to tell you." "If I give vou the right?" "Then you must ; also give me pardon. Rumour says tihat— you will marry Lord Teneriffe.' - '• Rumour is mistaken, as usual. Even if I could ever bave thought— no, Mr Trevanion, I shall never marry Lord Teneriffe. And if' -he " . "Duchess,- that Mf iis scarcely Jail to bim. There is, -no proof. Until tOiere is, the gentleman w'hp wrote to me a certain letter must. have the benefit of the doubt." "If he had nob .. written that letter, you would not have wr-I'tten to one?" "No."'^- . "And I should not have been here now." ' ". t The ;.: tint's eyes 'worshipped Dianas beauty. She was not a duchess for him— only' a perfect" woman, with whom no-other was comparable. "I thank. you for coming," he said dowly ;" how, much I can ha_-dly tell you. Perhaps my ,, greatest regret for my loss is that yeu should not have seen the picture. If it could have been stolen to-morrow, not to-day You have come here for nothing." "No; not for nothing." *.. Diana's lashes cast a lovely shadow on her cheeks. "I wanted— to meet you. And— l am so sorry for this. I feel to blame, somehow. If it had not been for nie— — " y _ V " There would have been no inspiration, no picture." . "And — you would not have lest it! ""Tis better to have loved and lost, than tfiever to have loved at all,' Duchess. I loved my picture." There was magic in the man's voice to make the heart-strings vibrate. He had loved his picture. Yep; he said no more than that— he wished to reveal no more ; yet the Ducbsss knew mere-, much more, and ail in a moment. He loved also his ideal;' he dared to love her. And the very thought that he would dare no more, that he would never dare to tell her, went to her head like wine. Many men bad loved her aud told lier of their love. This one would not tell. He was not like the others. Of theni there was not one who had not a great fortune' or a title to throw > in the balance. This man's fortune and. title were all in his genius— and the soul which shone in bis eyes. Yet no lordamong them had so grand a face, so noble ( a bearing, as this Cornish artist, bereft of his masterpiece and tempest-tossed by hopeless love* '• You loved your picture," she echoed, her voice as soft as the whisper of an /Eolian harp. "You must have it back again. The man— we both suspect— must be accused. If necessary, I will bear wit"Do yeu think I would let you dothat?" . , " Why not? Many men m your place would — — " . • " Would what, Duchess?" "Oh! ifc sounds shocking in words— said by me. But so many men Would buy eclat • afc any price." , ) . "No real man would, at such a price. ' Your name is more sacred to me than my picture. Dy you imagine I would drag it into Court, by. way of an advertisement? Duchess, an artist can be a gentleman. Though, perhaps., you think because I meant

to show a picture for which I had stolen something of your beauty, that I " No, no, you misunderstand. If I had thought what you mean, would I be here? But the picture. Jt was your chef d'eeuvre." "I had put iny soul into it." " And -now it i= stolen ; your exhibition is ruined ; tbe chief attraction gone ; only the small sketches left, and people, expecting mere, will ffo away unsatisfied. Instead of achieving the triumph you had hoped for, instead of springing into fame at a bound as you had dreamed of doing, vou will— the whole affair will fall flat. You will— in short, this loss means failure."

"No 1e.3. Yet, Duchess, I've torn consolation from disaster. You came. I have these moments to remember. For them, and tbat memory which I shall carry away with me, I think no price could be too. high to pay." . The earnestness of eyes and voice saved this compliment from high-flown exaggeration. He meant every word of it, arid

mere. -Yet failure!" cried the Duchess. " Failure is horrfble. It is worse than anything in the world." Trevanion's lips opened to answer. But Diana, was -not to know what that answer mio-ht have been. Before it could be spoken, the ctaftled youth in buttons showed himself between the curtains. "Sir!" he panted, "there's carriage*, drivino- up. People are coming for tho show. What's to be said? Are they to be let- in to look at the pictures in the other room, or " '"No, tbere will bs no exhibition," began Trevanion; but Diana stopped him with a hand upon his arm. . "Wait!" she exclaimea. "You shall not fail. The exhibition must go on;" Paul Trevanion shrugged his shoulders, and his face was pale. " Thank you for your kind interest, Duchess," he said, quietly. "But what is tbe use? I've nothing worth showing noAV. To take people's money and not give them what they have come to sae will do me more harm than good, and— — - " Then give theni ' what they came to see!" Diana's beauty blazed with vivid brilliance. Always beautiful, in 1 - a moment she bad become blinding. Trevanion and the boy in the doorway gazed at her, dazzled, wondering. "Quick!" she cried. " Turn down the gas. It must not be too high." Neither stirred, and she< sprang to carry out her own commands. Then, befqre Trevanion had guersed her meaning, she'' ran to tbe empty frame, and slipped behind it.

"They shall have what they came /to see!" she repeated. " Make haste,- Mr Trevanion, for your sake and'mine, too. I will do it! There's no xise trying to dissuade me. AH my heart's in it, and fate, too ; for^is not my dress the very dreas of your picture? Prop the frame with some 4 thing on either side, so tbat I shall have room behind it. There— this table will do for one thing. Move that old-fashioned cabinet nearer on the other side. See, tbey support it. Now, that green velvet screen for a background — and that chair to sit in. I. might grow tired standing, and by a move betray our seeret— yes, ours, ours ! Like this I can .it for ever. What do you think of the pose?" Seated-in the oak chair which the dazed youth in buttons bad given her, her dimpled elbow testing on the carved baick, her smiling face turned over her shoulder, its exquisite" tints "of 'pearl and rose shadowed 'by the great black hat, her gleaiming auburn. hair and white dress cut clear arid bright againsfc the olive background of the screen she had selected, tbe Duchess of Laleham was radiant in almost unearthly beauty. " You are perfect, adorable," breathed the artist, as if wrapped in a dream from which he would not awaken. " But "

"There is no 'but.' Turn out the gas. There! Now lam ready. Let the door be opened." Three minutes later came the first members of the public, eager to sse the. picture which, though advertised oply as "Dear Lady Disdain," they had heard was supposed to represent the beautiful Duchess of Laleham.

And the- first arrivals were almost immediately followed by the second, third and fourth. Thanks to the rumour spread by Mrs Dyke-Taylor, the rooms were soon crowded. People paid hasty tribute of am admiring , glance and word to ihe sketches which lined two walls in the front room, and then hurried through the red-curtained door-way. It was very dark an the h-ack Toam . dominated thy the life-sized painting of " Dear Lady Disdain," but no one dared* to light the gas, to do which they would have had to creep under the red* velvet i-ope that kept them at ten feet d.stamee -from the picture.

A sensational picture, everyone agreed, though there was nothing else concerning it that they did agree upon. Some said the figure was mioie than life-size, others that it was smaztily done and original i-n execution and conception, but distinctly out o^ drawing. The flesh tints were .pronounced . too bright, 'human flesh did not have that effect against a background of green. The hands were wooden. The colouring of the hair was rather crude. The eyes had a strained expression, or at .east you came to think so after you had -looked at the picture for a minute. Still, it was admitted; hy me-n- and women alike that, the new artist's "Dear Lady Disdain " was a beauty ; much more beautiful than* the Duchess of Laleham, said the women; only second to her, said the men." -

Lord Teneriffe lunched at his club that day. He was .altogether in an unsociable mood, and appeared not to heed the general conversation*,' until a maai began talking of the picture dhow he had 'been to se© in Bond Street. "Most wonderful portrait of the Duchess of Laleham — will be the talk of London — greatest sensation of the artistic season — only pity the showroom was dark as a pocket."

At these words Lord Teneriffe was seen suddenly to lift his head and to glare at the speake-., whom he did not know. He had not finished his luncheon, nevertheless* he rose from th* table almost immediately, passed the,next course (his favourite) which was ort its! way to him, without a glance, and went out.

A swift cab set him down in less than ten minutes at a door in Bond Street before which sandwich-mem solemnly promenaded with boards advertising Mr Paul Trevanion's picture of "Dear Lady D.sdain," and Cornish and Italian studies.

Lord Teneriffe almost threw down, his shilling and went dn. He strode through the front room and stopped on the other side of tho red curtains. He could scarcely believe his own eyes. Had a certain man employed by him lied', and taken his hundred pounds without having earned it, a;fter all?

He stood still, staring, and thinkinff hard. It was between two and three o clock ; everyone! was at luncheon, and the crowd would not begin to pour in again- for another half-an-hour. At this moment — there was only one person beside Lord Teneriffe in the room behind the curtain-3 — a* tall, handsome fellow, with close-cropped black hair,. fine features, and great, black-lashed, Celtic eyes of dark blue. The eyes met Lord Teneriffe's; and intuition told -the latter that. th[s man, who looked like a prince, was only the- "painter fellow" to whom he owed so b&avy a grudge.

"Your name's Trevaiuon, isn't it?" hs asked roughly. " Ycft," raid the other. " An:l yeu, if I mistake not, are L°nl Ten-? rifle." With this, a sudden temptation came to tlie man so named, and he did not even try to resist it. " Lord Teneriffe," he repeated, "and the fiance of the lady you have been impertinent enough to caricature therfr on canvas, fer tbe sake of filling your pockets. In that lady's name, I demand again that you remove this picture from your contemptible exhibition. I allow you exactly two minutes to decide, Mr Trevanion. If at the end of that time you don't give orders to liave the picture taken away or closs this room to the public, I will ". "What more will you do, may I ask, Lord Teneriffe, than you have already attempted?" At tlie note of defiance and the sneer which to a guilty conscience suggested suspicion, Teneriffe lost his temper and his head. He aimed! a blow with his stick at the tall artist, which would not have missed had it nc_t been for a strange happening that was like something in a dream. The white figure in the picture rose and stepped frcm the frajne with arm outstretched. " You coward and thief !" cried the voice of the Duchess, of Laleham. Somehow, the story leaked out — no one exactly knew how; but it was not until after the announcement of Diana's engagement to Paul Trevanion — that extraordinarily handsome young Cornish artist — had • already given the world one more excuse for its nickname of the " Amazing Duchess."