TALES & SKETCHES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 935, 31 January 1890, Page 7

TALES & SKETCHES.

BY JOSEPH HATTON, Author of ‘Cruel London,’ ‘The Three He* eruits,’ ‘John Needham’s Double,’ &o.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] BY ORDER 0? THE CZAR. THE TRAGIC STORY OF ANNA KLOSSTOCK, THE QUEEN OF THE GHETTO.

[All Kigiits Reserved.] Part 11. CHAPTER XL Dolly and Duty. The candidate for the Academy’s Gold Medal, and the affianced of Dolly Norcotfc, was received by Mrs Milbanke in her afternoon warpaint, just ready, to go out, her brougham at the door, iu her hand one of those formidably-mounted parasols that an American satirist had named ‘the husbandqueller.’ It was a Paris purchase by Walter, the handle of solid gold, with a jewelled rim that suggested some regal symbol of high office, or at least a civic mace ; a detail to be noted as one glances back a season or two upon tall hats, dress-improvers, and other inventions of Fashion. Mrs Milbanke herself must have had in her mind the ostentatious importance of that formidable parasol ; for she told Walter that when Philip was announced she felt like a warrior of old in full armour, and with a glove in his casque, ready for auything or anybody, but more particularly for Mr Philip Forsyth. ‘My dear Mrs Milbanke,’ said Philip, ‘I called to see if I might have the pleasure of taking you and Dolly’ (yes, he called her Dolly) ‘to my mother’s Afternoon.’ ‘ You might,' said Mrs Milbanke, her bonnet on, her golden sceptre in her hand, ‘and you might not: I really cannot say ; we thought you had forgotten that there was such a place as Westbury Lodge ; at breakfast this morning Walter wondered whether you had been called abroad.’ Mrs Milbanke’s brown cheeks glowed ' with suppressed anger. ‘ I hoped to have called yesterday,’ said Philip, looking at his boots. ‘lt is two days since my sister accepted your proposal, the most momentous occasion of both your lives; for two days she has neither seen you nor heard from you; and to-day you call as if nothing had happened ; what is the meaning of it, Mr Forsyth? What are we to understand by it. My sister is positively ill with , vexation or anxiety, I really do not know which.’ ‘I am awfully sorry,’ said Philip,’ ‘the truth is I have been unusually busy ; -I went to Mrs Chetwynd’s At Home last night—more on business than for any other purpose ; Chetwynd came and fetched me away from the studio ; and I hoped to have seen you at Dorset Square—you and your sister.’ ‘ I don’t know why you should have expeoted either of us ; we do not know Mrs Chetwynd ; we have met her once or twice it is true ; and we. know Chetwynd, a very pleasant sort of person ; but we do not visit Mrs Chetwynd.’ Mrs Milbanke had made up her mind to be calm, if spiteful, the moment Philip was announced ; but she found it impossible to control herself. Her tongue wagged at a tremendous rate. ‘Moreover,’ she continued, ‘if you had any wish or any curiosity about it, you could have asked us if we were going to the Chetwynds. A young man does not get engaged every day ; it is an incident, at all events, in a young girl’s life which is more than ordinary ; but ’ ‘Really, Mrs Milbanke, I don’t think I have deserved to be so severely lectured ; and without a hearing,’ said Philip, interrupting Dolly’s sister in her m&d career of rebuke. ‘I was going to explain that I have been unusually busy; you know of what importance it is to me that I should lay in that medal picture before I go to Venice ; and I met the lady at Mrs Chetwynd’s whom I wanted to sit for the central figure ; she kindly consented to give ms a sitting this morning; Bhe came, and the moment she left I drove here.’ ‘ What lady ?’ said Mrs Milbanke. And then Philip lemombered that the entire story of the mysterious lady of the opera was between himself and Chetwynd—and of course Chetwynd’s wife. You tell a man something heiis not to repeat to anyone, not even to his wife ; he gives you his »- ord and keeps it, no doubt, as a rule, except in regird to the pledge not to tell his wife. Philip did not quite know why he had not told the story to his dear friends the MilbaDkes. Perhaps he had not had time; perhaps he thought Mrs Milbanke would talk too much about it. He had it in his mind to tell Dolly on the night when he proposed to her, but for some reason or other he did not. * The lady whom I thought I saw at the opera,’ Philip replied, ‘ and whose face gave me the idea for the sketch of “ Tragedy.” Did I not tell vou ?'

* No,’ said Mrs Milbanke, pursing up her Hittle mouth and waiting for further explanation.

* Well, there was not much to tell. I saw a remarkable face at the opera ; it gave me on idea for the picture. Chetwynd found the original. She was at his wife’s At Home. She consented to give me a sitting.’ ‘Yes?’ said Mrs Milbanke, ‘and so you could not come and see Dolly ; nor send a telegram nor a letter, nor a bouquet, nor anything ; and have we the pleasure of knowing the lady ?’ *1 think not. She is a Russian Countess —Lady Stravensky.’ ‘The woman we met at Lady Marchmount's—that was the name ; I mentioned her to you the day vve met at the studio ; the foreign woman who smoked cigarettes, an adventuress I should imagine.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Philip, ‘but whatever she is her face is a wonderful study.’ * No doubt,' said Mrs Milbanke. ‘ She is received at the Russian Embassy.’ ‘ And at Mr Philip Forsyth’s studio,’retorted Mrs Milbanke. ‘And why not?’ asked Philip,’ ‘surely you do not think ’ ‘ Don’t ask me what I think or I may tell yon, and we might both be sorry aftei wards ; I love my sister Dolly, and know how good, and sweet and forgiving and geutle she is ; and it grieves me to see her miserable ; it' sa something new, terribly new to see her cry ; this is one of the happiest households in the world, Mr Forßyth but yesterday and to-day we have been all of us positively wretched.’ Here Mrs Milbanke began ‘to give way ’ as she afterwards told Walter, for Philip did look so mournfully apo'ogetic that she could not find it in her heart to continue the attack. ‘And all this on my account,’ he said, and it must be admitted that he was truly sorry ; • Believe me I am deeply grieved; I hope you will not think I am trying to make an excuse when X say that Dolly was not out of my thoughts ; for all the time I have been thinking of my work and doing it my ambition was engaged as much on her account as on my own. And I was anxious to make my arrangements for our trip to Venice.’ - ‘I told Dolly,’ said Mrs Milbanke, now laying down her sceptre and sinking gracefully into a chair, * that you could not fail to have a proper explanation ; but she is a sensitive girl, and of course she very much expected to see you yesterday. I was going to your mother’s when you were aunounced. If you will bring Dolly I will send the carriage back for you.’ ‘ I shall be delighted,’ said Philip. Whereupon Jenny went upstairs to her sister, who, much engrossed with a popular authoress’s last novel, had for the time being

forgotten her own troubles in those of a " romantic hero, who, despite hie Oriental palace and his many conquests among Princesses and beauties of the bluest blood, married and otherwise, was unhappy on account of some village maiden who had unconsciously made a hot and fierce onslaught upon his hitherto untouched sensibilities. ‘You must come down, my darling,' said Jennie, 4 Philip is here, very contrite, awfully unhappy. He has been very busy on a work which he hopes to finish in order to be able to get away with us next week ; I talked to him rather severely,'But I am now, because he is so aorr j ; come down, dear, I will go on to his mother’s, and he will bring you; he looks very handsome.’ Dolly laid aside her novel; got up from her luxurious little couch, which was quite a decoration at the foot of her dainty little bed; looked at herself in a convenient mirror ; the investigation was satisfactory, both to herself aud to her sister ; and might have been to any male connoisseur of female beauty. Soft, rosy cheeks, a wealth of silken hair, a round undulating figure, the lovely lines of which were indicated in the graceful folds of a flowing muslin tea gown. 4 How long will it take you te dress ?’ 4 Haiban-hour.’ ‘Then Philip shall escort me to Lady Forsyth’s and return for you ; he need not go

in.' «I ventured to ask your mother one day when I was injjan inquisitive mood, why she insists upon living in Gower-street,’ said Mrs Milbanke, when the brougham was rolling quietly upon its rubber tires by the north side of Regent’s Park, and making its way through the north gate and along by the Zoo, ‘ one of the ugliest—not to say the most unfashionable of streets.’ ‘And what did she say?’ Philip asked, anxious to take an interest in any subject which Mrs Milbanke might consider worthy of discussion. « Because her house at a hundred and fifty a year was worth six of the Mayfair houses at three or four tiroes the rent, and because she had bought the lease, and furthermore because sha»liked the house, and furthermore still —you know your mo her’s graphic manner —because a fashionable neighbourhood is not necessary to a woman who can bring fashion to her rooms wherever they may be.’ . . • My dear mother has a groat opinion of her social position,’ said Philip, * and the best people so-called and certainly the most interesting do go to see her.’ ‘ That’s true,’ said Mrs Milbanke, • but I have not told you all she said ; she asked me what I meant by living in St John’s Wood—did I call that a fashionable locality ? I said if it wa3 good enough in the past for Landseer, George Eliot, “Douglas Jerrold, Charles Dickens, and in the present for an old lady friend of Her Majesty’s, half a dozen R.A.’s, and no end of literary men of the first magnitude, not to mention bankers and divines, it w»3 good enough for the wife of a mere city solicitor. ’ And thus after sundry discussions or an equally momentous character, Philip and his prospective sister.in-law drifted into the very smallest of small talk which was happily brought to an end very quickly, for Walter Milbanke’s horses were.as good as his wines and his dinners, Walter priding himself on having everything of the best. When Mrs Milbanke made kerway through Lady Forsyth’s crowded hall to the orawing room, Philip Forsyth in a somewhat per-

turbed Btaie of mind was driven back to Westbury Lodge. He hardly felt master of himself ; a strong consciousness of tli6 claims of duty took possession of him. He had proposed to Dolly ; Dolly was a beautiful girl, she might easily make a much better match. His mother liked her very much. Mrs Milbanko was a kind, genial woman, devoted to D011y. 5 , Walter Milbanke was a good fellow. They were well-to-do, and they, paid him much respect. Chstwynd had said Philip needed the anchorage of marriage ; and after all the Countess Stravensky was a strange creature, with no doubt a remarkable career. She went about in a queer way with a private secretary, who was a very cut-throat looking person ; and she was Philip’s senior by several years. He admitted to himself that Bhe exercised a strange fascination over him ; but why did he admit this? Why did he think about her at all beyond the realm of art, any more than he would think of any other good subject ? He asked himself these questions in a desultory kind of way, and shuddered with a pleasant thrill as he thought of her kissing him ; but this was followed by an unpleasant kind of feeling that there was something motherly or sisterly, or merely friendly in her kiss and in her farewell, nothing suggestive of passion or of love except in the abstract. She had said ‘Good-bye;’ she had treated him as if he were a Memory, not a living entity. As he thought in this wise his mind began to take a cynical view of what had happened ; ‘ she kissed me for someone else, kissed me because I reminded her of someone she had known when a girl, or that some other girl had known; “Let me kiss him for his mother ” ’ —the song rang through hiß brain with a laugh, as if the thought had been bracketed with the word Laughter, as the reporters put it in their chronicles of funny speeches. Indeed, Philip felt himself in a very bewildered state of mind, inclined at one moment to make fun 'of himself and bis aspirations, then to fall under the influence of the pale face and the red gold nair, and finally to stretch out mental and physical arms towards Dolly and duty. The alliteration of the words struck' him, Dolly and duty, and he smiled. Ho was meutally intoxicated. I-Xe hated himself for having behaved inconsiderately to Dolly, who had been so deliciously kind to him only two nights previously, and to whom he had pledged a life’s devotion. He felt that he had deserved all that Mrs Milbanke had said in his disparagement, and all indeed she had not said, but had hinted at ; and sitting by her side with her sensuous perfume still clinging about him, the consciousness of her pretty dresses and in her soothingly luxurious atmosphere, and remembering that Dolly was almost ten years younger and ten times prettier, and with soft round arms and pouting red lips, and hair like the richest yellow silk, he tried to snap his fingers at the poetic, intellectual, Oriental beauty of the strange foreign woman who for a few bour3 had threatened to fill .his very soul with her violet eyes and her stately figure and her red-gold hair.

It is quite questionable after all if Dick Chetwynd was right in advising Philip to get married. And it was equally questionable whether Dolly Norcott was the woman for such au erratic and unstable nature as Philip’s seemed to be. Philip’s was au emotional nature, liable to fall under evanescent influences. He was imaginative, bad mixed ideas of duty, a longing ambition, was proud, had thoughts that were the outcome of momentary influences, good impulses, but a short memory for them. He had one great redeeming quality—industry ; but for this he might have been classed among the geniuses who are content to dream, the geniuses who only lack for success the «nur of industry. If the narrator of those adventures believed in the evil eye or in interposition of some supernaturally evil factor in a young naan’s life, he would declare that the face at the Opera had for Philip the evil eye under whose influence he would fall and suffer ; but that is perhaps only because one has to record what appears to be a strange, sudden change in the young man’s conduct and destiny from the moment he saw the face of the Countess Stravensky at the Opera ; anyhow, it is certain that when the shadow of the Countoss Stravensky fell upon the life of Philip Forsyth he became another being, and probably Richard Chetwynd might say ‘ and all the better for Philip Forsyth,' since the inspiration of the face at the Opera had given the young fellow’s art just the touch of imagination it needed, just the idea of purpose and intention which had made it for the first time in the opinion of Chetwynd a tremendous reality of promise. As the brougham glided along that most wearisome and monotonous of all London thoroughfares, Albany Street, Philip recalled what Mrs Milbanke had said about the foreign lady who smoked cigarettes at Lady r Marchmount’s, and then for the twentieth time he wondered what could be the meaning of Lady Marcbmount professing to ignore the Countess’s presence in her box on that memorable night at the Opera. For the twentieth time he went over the whole of the circumstances ; and for the twentieth time came to the conclusion that there must be some feud between the Countess and the young wife of the Russian General Petrono* vitch, whose name he had noticed in the papers that very morning, by the way, as the representative whom Russia in a semiofficial way was sending to Venice, to be present at the function on which occasion Venice was to put on some of her ancient glories, gondolas of past centuries, so far as decoration was concerned, gondoliers iu all the glories of the greatest days of the Queen of the Adriatic. Russia was not willing, it appeared, to let England and Germany have it all their own way even with Italy ; ami iu that gorgeous procession of boats was to be a barge belonging to General Petronovitch, and probably a military and civic staff. At least that is what the papers said. Philip hoped he might be there to see ; and how could he see the show in better company than that of Dolly and her sister and Walter Milbanke, who knew Venice, and would be sure, to do the thing as it should be done ? If Philip had been confronted with this mixture of prosaic, artistic, worldly, and incongruous interpretation of his multifarious reflections and thoughts as he drove from Gower Street to St John’s Wood, ha would

probably have denied the correctness of the xeport ; but much as it might have surprised and perhaps annoyed him, it would nevertheless have been perfectly true ; therefore, in your estimate of the charaoter of Philip Forsyth, do not forget this somewhat inconsequential record of his state of mind on this 1 notable day. CHAPTER X. The Patience, Hope, and Practical Philosophy op Sam Selwyn. Early spring sunshine was making pretty lace like shadows upon the dusty roadway, as the Milbanke brougham emerged into the picturesque thoroughfare by the Zoo. Presently it drew aside to permit a royal cavalcade to pass, Her Majesty was paying her usual visit to her old frieud, mentioned by Mrs Milbanke in her defence of St. John’s Wood. No sosner was the Queen in town for a day or two than her carriage with it 3 escort was seen in Regent’s Park and St. John’s Wood. It was a bright, inspiring day. Philip with the remembrance of Dolly and that strong determination of duty in bis mind felt the influence of the Russian shadow slipping away from him ; though if he had cared to bo perfectly frank with himself he would have had to acknowledge that his sudden realisation of the claims of duty had something to do with the exorcisation of the pale face and the red-gold hair. When he arrived at Westbury Lodge he found Dolly waiting for him in the little morning room. How love y she looked! You might have asked Philip how she was dressed and he could not have told yon. She seemed to him like the embodiment of the day, floral, fresh, sunny, and sweet. Whether she wore a bonnet or a hat, what was the colour of her gown, would have been questions as difficult to him as- abstruse points in algebra ; but the general effect was a dream of Engiisli girlhood, sunny hair, soft, glowing cheeks, red lips, arched like Cupid’s bow, and when she spoke a musical voice that had nothing in it but forgiveness and Jove, and no other suggestion than a desire to be amiable and happy. He felt the contrast between this and his intercourse with the Lady Stravensky, a 3 a restful, calm delight. Dolly submitted to be kissed and accepted Philip’s apologies with a pretty smile, saying, r Oh, it did not matter.’ Of course she had thought when people were engaged that—but she would say nothing, Jennie had said quite enough, she was sure, and it was all her fault for taking it to heart, * And I did somehow take it to heart,’ she went on, ‘ but I am spoiled. Jennie spoils me, V alter spoils me, and I expected you would ; perhaps it is as well—besides, it is a mistake not to allow each other a little freedom, is it not?’

‘ So long as you allow me the freedom to love me with all my heart,’ said Philip, kissing her again, ‘that is enough for me,’ and in saying so he said exactly what he thought at the moment, his ecstasy being enhanced by a responsive embrace that blotted out every thought of the Countess Stravensky, her violet eyes, red-gold hair and all; for in the matter of beauty, for pleasant companionship, to live with, to go to receptions with, to have at a young man’s side, to make other young men envious of, Dolly Norcott could, to quote Sam SeLvyn, give any other girl in all the wide world as many points as the severest handicappor could desire and beat her by miles ! Poor Selwyn, he had made it a point to be at Latly Forsyth’s At Home ; he had long been on her ladyship's visiting list ; and an off day on tho Stock Exchange and other considerations drove him to Gower-street. Moreover, be hoped to meet Mrs Milbanke aud her sister. He had hoard of the engagemont between Philip and Dolly almost as soon as he was awake, the next morning, but he had no intention of resenting it. He had not proposed to Dolly, therefore he had no grievance. He liked Walter Milbanko. and occasionally did business with him. He enjoyed Mrs Milbauke’s little parties ; and he loved Dolly devctedly ; why, therefore, should he give the Milbankes reason to fight shy of him ? No, he would continue the friendship if they would let him. He could not help thinking Philip a bit of a snob ; but for Dolly’s sake he would try and like him. Besides, there is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip ; the safest stock would occasionally collapse. Nothing was certain except settling day ; even that had a bright side now and then; and he determined to keep alive just for his own smoking, as he called it—his fancy for Dolly Norcott. The fellows at the City Club where Sam was lunching with these reflections in his mind, while Dolly and Jennie were having their after breakfast discussion, gave Sam credit for a very different line of thought from that which engaged him. It was known that he had made what they called a haul in nitrate rails and primitivas. A genial, clever, merry fellow, Sam had attracted the notice of the master of those stocks, who over a chop and a bottle of rodcrer had confided to Sara certain information upon which the young broker had acted with a lively faith and a firm hand, which had had remarkable results. ‘Just bought an estate m Surrey, 1 hear.’ said Cordiner. 4 Well, I congratulate you.’ ‘l’ve had one in Spain any time this ten years,’ said Sam. ‘lt won’t run to Surrey.’ . , _, , ‘ There is no fellow going whose good luck is lesß envied than yours, Sam.’ ‘And you ?’ said Sam, looking up from his simple repast and contemplating his suave, genial, well-fed, clean-shaven, fashionably, dressed friend. ‘ Oh V said Coidiner, ‘if my doctor did not interfere with my champagne, and Providence invented for one’s sins a less severe form of punishment than gout, I should bo the happiest man alive.’ ‘ You are married ?’ ‘ Rather,’ said Cordiner': ‘ happy though married, as the bookstalls have it.’ ‘lam a bachelor,’ said Sam, aud the information vouchsafed on both sides was not so much out of place in the conversation of city friends as might at first appear ; it is common enough iu the City of London for men to know each other intimately 'within the shadow of the Stock Exchange and even at West End clubs without having the

smal'est knowledge of each other’s domestic relations. ‘Then you don’t' want the estate in Surrey at present,’ said Cordiner, ‘no good without a wife.’ ‘ I suppose not,’ said Sam, ‘ unless— ’ ‘ No, no, don’t do that, oldchep, no fun to be got out of that.’ ‘No? said Sam, his thoughts running in quite a different direction from those of Cordiner. ‘ None ; morality pays, my boy ; requires a hit of a struggle ; perhaps some experience ; but in regard to women it comes within the proverb about honesty being the best policy.’ ‘ 1 daresay,’said Sam, who by this, time had come to the cheese and to a considera. tion as to which frock-coat he would wear for the Forsyth afternoon and how long it would take him to get home and dross ; and be woudered if Dolly would be there and what she would say to him, how sha would receive him ; how Philip would treat him—haughtily, of course. The conquering hero game and all that f well, he did not care—he was not going to allow himself to be shut out of a corner of Paradise because he could not range all over it. ‘Are you off?’ said Cordiner, who had made some other remark to Sam which had not been answered. ‘ Yes.’ * You aro woolgathering a little, eh ?’ * Am I ?' said Sam. * Yes, you are,’ replied Cordiner, ordering *a pint of the driest there is in the club ; speak to the steward, send him to me, that's the beßt thing, there’s a brut of eighty or something of that kiud, I chink— ’ While Cordiner was thus trying to defend himself as much as possible from the penalty of his favourite sin, Sam had said—‘Good morning, old fellow ’ —and a few minutes later was bowling away to his chambers in Sackville-street. And -very pleasant chambers they were ! Four rooms—three for himself, one for his man, Devereux, a calm, serious,, quiet man of forty, who looked sixty, and might have lived all his life with a bishop. ‘ Morning frock, white vest, grey trousers,’ said the master. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Devereux. * White silk tie, usual boots.’ ‘ Yes, sir, said Devereux. ‘The brougham at four to the minute.’ * Yes, sir,’ said Devereux. That’s all.’ ‘Thank yon, sir,’ said Devereux.

They were indeed very pleasant chambers ; not your usual bachelor chambers, decorated with pictures of ballet-girls, or studies from Etty, or racehorses, or illustrations of prizefight;, or pictures of yachts ; but good, commom sense respectable rooms ; a dining-room furnished in light oak, with a dado to match, a few paintings by the best modern masters, a cabinet for wines- and spirits, a couple of old armchairs, an oak over-mantel, with a fow nice specimens of Nankin blue, and on the polished floor a thick Turkey carpet. The adjoining room was arranged for smokiDg and cards ; not that there was much play at any time in Selwyn’s rooms, but his friends liked a hand at whist or poker ; and he believed in making them comfortable. He had keys for everything, his cigar cabinet, his cards, his counters, his spirits, he was business-like, not that he did not trust Devereux, who kept in a special cupboard a reserve of spirits, wines, and cigars, but Sam liked his bunch of keys ; they were with their bright chain a form of personal decoration ; the chain represented a kind of male chatelain when ho thrust his hand into his pocket on dress occasions, and he rattled it and his keys with something of a housekeeper’s pride, There were a few cards stuck iu his overmantel ; private views of pictures, two or three At Homes, invitations to smoking concerts ; and prominent among the society cards as Sam called them, was Lady Forsyth’s Every Wednesday afternoon in May and June. 1 • Quite ready, sir,’ said Devereux, in his ecclesiastical manner. ‘ Thank you,’ said Sam, retiring to his bedroom, the very model of a sleeping apartment, with a spacious bathroom beyond. What could a fellow like Selwya want with a wife while he possessed all these luxuries and privileges ; such a servant as Devereux, who bad never been known to be in drink or out of temper ; and with an improvieg business; a growing balance at his banker’s; and financial prospects generally of the rosiest. These questions in a vague way presented themselves to Sam as ho began to dress for Lady Forsyth’s At Home ; they occurred to him probably because the prospect of his having a wife now seemed farther off than ever ; as his means had increased, juat indeed’ as he could afford with a clear conscience to have said- to Dolly Norcott, * Be mine,’ she bad drifted farther away, nay, right away from him ; she had engaged herself to be married to another, and the matffi was consiue:ed to bo a good one all round. ‘ And yet, somehow/ he said to himself, * X don’t say die ; might as well, of course ; to hope is like locking tip stock that you know is as dead as last week s quotations with a view to the future ; may look up some day ; do to leave in one’s will as a possible asset > or to schedule in bankruptcy, as Cordiner would say, when he is chaffing old Smudger—might swell out the figures—unrealised asset; unrealisable would be the right description. Locky at cards, unlucky in° love; can’t have luck all ways; if I’d busted perhaps I should, in my despair, have proposed and been accepted. No accounting for what’s going to happen in this world ; don’t know as one can either bull or bear the next, for that matter. Suppose I mustn’t complain ; I never ax’d her, sir, t-hc said ; and Fortune has favoured me up yonder ou ’Change. Cheer up, Sam, don’t let your spirits go down, there’s many a gal as you know well—no, confound it, that s vuigar ; I'm losing my grip ; hate those horrid comic, bragging masher songs ; wouldn’t have Devereux hear me chant a thing like that lor • a fiver; and I was thinking of ItU-s N/w----cott too; Sam what are you* about .' fact is, I am not the Ifind of fefiow for u gill like that ! Fortyfch has style ; handsome

chap too ; knows how to put on side; then his mother has a title ; he hasn’t, that’s one thing ; father only a knight after all; no better than Tom Wylie; no better than Yinons Harry ; I could get to be Sir Samuel in time, if I liked ; easy enough, only give your mind and your stomach to it in the city. Sir Samuel Selvvyn ! Well, my forbears were swells down in Yorkshire ; I shouldn't disgrace them ; perhaps I should. Cordiner says one is most distinguished not to be Sir Th sor That. Old Smudger would call me Sir Samivel; but for all that tny wife in the West End would be Ladj Selvvyn ; and after all that’s the only good of a title ; it’s either for the missus or the boy ; at least, in the case of real grit; a 3 for the Snooters who get titles up in the city—well, but it is all right; surely lam not making a grievance of it; and as for Sir Diehard Smyth, Sir Harry Dane and those other two fellows who sprang up the other day out of fish and fruit into knighthoods, they are very good fellows after all.’ ‘ Carriage at the door, sir,’ said Devereux?’ ‘Thanks/ Sam replied. ‘My coat all right, Devereux ?’ ‘ Yes, sir,’ said Devereux, Hitching npthe cellar and pulling it down again with a professional air. * Goad fitting coat, s r.’ * That’s all right,’ said the master. * shall dine at the club.’ ‘ Yes, sir.’ * Beady to dress at seven.’ ‘ Yes, sir.’

(To be continued.)