had been breakfasting with Saxon, and the table
was yet loaded with pâtés, coffee, liqueurs, and
all the luxurious et cæteras of a second déjeûner.

Saxon flung away his pen, sprang forward,
seized his cousin by both hands, and poured forth
a torrent of greetings.

"How good of you to come," he exclaimed,
"after having taken the trouble to go yesterday
to the club! I was so sorry to miss you! I
meant to hunt you up this very afternoon in
Chancery-lane. I have been an ungrateful
fellow not to do so a week ago, and I'm sure I
don't know how to excuse myself. I've thought
of you, cousin William, every day."

"I should have been sorry to bring you into
the dingy atmosphere of the City," said Mr.
Trefalden, pleasantly. "I had far rather see you
thus, enjoying the good things which the gods
have provided for you."

And with this, Mr. Trefalden shook hands
with Lord Castletowers, hoped Lady
Castletowers was well, bowed to Sir Charles Burgoyne,
and dropped into an easy-chair.

"You were writing," he said, "when I came
in. Pray go on."

Saxon blushed scarlet.

"Oh no," he said, shyly, "the letters can
wait."

"So can I—and smoke a cigar in the mean
while."

"They—that is, Lord Castletowers was helping
me to write them—telling me what to say, in
fact. He calls me the 'Impolite Letter Writer,'
and says I must learn to turn fine phrases, and
say the elegant things that nobody means."

"The things that nobody means are the things
that everybody likes," said the Earl.

"I have often wished," said Burgoyne, from
ihe sofa, "that some clever person would write a
handbook of civil speeches—a sort of 'Ready
Liar,' you know, or 'Perjurer's Companion.'
It would save a fellow so much trouble!"

"I wish there were such a book, if only to
teach you better manners," retorted
Castletowers.

"I don't pretend to have the manners of a
lord," said the Beauty, languidly.

"If you were the lord of my manors, you
wouldn't have many to boast of," replied
Castletowers, with a light-hearted laugh.

Burgoyne opened his eyes, and took the
cigarette from his mouth.

"Listen to this fellow!" said he, "this
bloated capitalist, who talks like a Diogenes
turned out of his tub! Castletowers, I am
ashamed of you."

"Compare me to Diogenes, if you like,"
replied the Earl; "but to a Diogenes who has a
dear old Elizabethan tub still left, thank Heaven!
and a few old oaks to shelter it. Few enough,
and old enough, more's the pity!"

"And I," said Burgoyne, with a yawn,
"haven't a stick of timber left, barring my
genealogical tree. My last oaks vanished in the
last Derby."

The Earl looked at his watch.

"If this note is to be delivered by two
o'clock," said he, "it must be finished at once;
and since Mr. Trefalden gives us leave . . . ."

"I do not only give leave," said Mr. Trefalden,
"I entreat."

Saxon took up his pen, and, pointing to a heap
of notes on the mantelshelf, said:

"You will find one there for yourself, cousin
William; and you must be sure to come."

"Invitations, young man?"

"Yes, to a dinner at Richmond, next Saturday."

Mr. Trefalden put the note in his pocket
unopened; smoked away with a quiet, meditative
smile; and took a leisurely survey of the room
as the dictation proceeded. Not one of its
multitudinous details escaped him—not one but told
him some anecdote of the last ten days of
Saxon's new life. There were several pictures
standing about on chairs, or leaning against the
walls. Some were painted in oils and some in
water-colours, and nearly all were views in
Switzerland. There were piles of new music;
stacks of costly books in rich bindings; boxes of
cigars and gloves; a bust of Shakespeare in
marble; a harmonium; a cabinet of Florentine
mosaic-work; a marvellous Etruscan vase on a
pedestal of verde antico; a couple of silver-mounted
rifles; a sideboard loaded with knick-knacks
in carved ivory, crystal, silver filigree, and
egg-shell china; and a sofa-table heaped with
notes, visiting cards, loose silver, and tradesmen's
bills. On the chimney-piece stood a pair of
bronze tazzas, a silver inkstand with a little Cupid
perched upon the lid, and a giallo model of the
Parthenon. A gold-headed riding-whip and a
pair of foils lay on the top of the harmonium;
and a faded bouquet in a tumbler occupied a
bracket, from which a French pendule had been
ignominiously displaced. William Trefalden was
an observant man, and drew his inferences from
these trifles. He found out that his young
Arcadian was learning to ride, fence, make acquaintances,
and spend his money royally. Above all,
he took note of the bouquet on the bracket.
There was nothing remarkable about it. It was
just like five hundred other bouquets that one
sees in the course of a season; and yet Mr.
Trefalden looked at it more than once, and smiled
under cover of a cloud of smoke each time that
he did so.

"—and that you will permit me to have the great
pleasure of driving you down in the afternoon"
said Lord Castletowers, dictating over Saxon's
shoulder.

"Drive her down!" echoed the scribe, in
dismay, "I drive her from London to Richmond?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"I can't. I don't drive well enough. I have
never driven anything but an old blind mare in a
rickety Swiss charette, in my life. I should
break her neck, and my own too!"

"Oh, never mind. You can give the reins to
Burgoyne or to me. It doesn't matter."