villas, without the smallest regard to the
probable wants or wishes of the purchaser.
On first settling, Mr. and Mrs. Pilkington had
left the dealer to do what was usual in such
cases. This done, they took their own places
and were content.

This little incident seemed to let me into
the secret of their destiny. They are, said I,
a part of the furniture of society, found in
it without any special object, saving that of
occupying a certain space, and standing in
some definite but arbitrary relation with
other things, or persons. This reflection soon
afterwards struck me as too abstract, and, lest
I should become unintelligible to myself, I
pursued it no further.

"Well, madam," said I, "and how did you
like the performance at the theatre, the other
evening? Were you interested in the new
drama, or the debutante? I noticed that
you carried a very large bouquet, but you
were not nigh enough to the stage to throw
it with any chance of its ever reaching the
spot ? It was a pity that the box-keeper
placed you so far off."

A shadow of wonder passed over the
immobile countenance of Mrs. Pilkington.

"I merely," she said, "had the bouquet,
because I thought it was proper when a lady
visited the dress-boxes of the Haymarket,
that she should have one in her hands. I
am sure, I did not know it was a new drama,
and have quite forgot the name of the
heroine."

"Then you did not enjoy the play much?"

"O, I liked it well enough. But I did not
take the trouble to make out the story. I
could not help smiling two or three times at
what they said. But I felt inclined to take a
nap occasionally. The Spanish dancers
afterwards were certainly pretty, but the manner
in which they flung out their legs sometimes
struck me as odd, and once or twice I
thought it improper."

"And is this all ?" I mentally exclaimed.

I wondered if it would be possible to get
up a conversation with Mr. Pilkington. I
resolved on the trial.

"Your wines, sir," said I, "particularly
this, might remind one of the Falernian."

"It may," replied Mr. Pilkington, " do so
with you; but I never tasted the wine you
mention—never, in fact, heard of it."

I was compelled to acknowledge that to
me, too, that classical beverage, so far as
regarded my actual experience, was as
unknown as Mandragora. To pursue the subject
was impossible. Horace and Maecenas had
no interest for Mr. Pilkington.

Tom Goodwood, who had behaved himself
with his usual ease, and talked moderately
not obtrusively during dinner, and chiefly on
personal themes, the healths and whereabout
of their mutual acquaintance, came at length
to my relief.

"Mr. Pilkington has some nice pictures,"
he said.

"Why," said I, "do you use that
convenient term, nice; that common drudge
which does all the kitchen business of taste,
and should never claim admission to the
drawing-room?"

"O," replied he, " don't be so confounded
particular. But if you will look at the
pictures on the wall, you will probably be
rewarded for your trouble."

I rose, with a sort of sad and mock
civility.

"O, yes; there are some lovely things
here. That is but a composition landscape;
yet it is good. And this is not a bad classical
subject; far from it."

"Those pictures," said Mr. Pilkington,
"were left to me by my father. They were
esteemed good furniture for his walls, and
are good enough for mine. Some of the
figures are, however, not sufficiently dressed
—at least, my wife thinks so; for myself, I
have no taste in such matters."

"So, madam," I said, " you have a
taste for painting? I am glad of it; it
is pleasant to have some topic for conversation.
But you must not permit a too rigid
exclusiveness. I can see no great artistic
daring in the disdain of drapery in either of
these works. Nor is it safe to judge of the
delicacy of a painting by the mere fact of its
figures partaking more or less of the nude. It
is the motive of the artist that governs the
character of the production; and there are
some pictures where much drapery is used
that are greatly more immoral than others
that can boast of little."

"It may be so," replied Mrs. Pilkington,
"but, excuse me, I don't understand you.
Really, sir, I cannot form an opinion on the
point."

And she was right. Notwithstanding what
her husband had stated, Mrs. Pilkington had
no opinion. What had seemed one was the
mere phantom of an opinion—an accidental
expression—a chance echo. Neither she nor
Mr. Pilkington had any opinion. The
world of opinion had not reached them, nor
had they made the slightest attempt to
reach it.

"You mistake, my dear friend," said Tom
Goodwood to me; "Mr. and Mrs. Pilkington
are not speculative people; but you will find
them eminently practical. Mr. Pilkington
is a banker—one of the safest firms—well
established; quietly called into being by his
father, and quietly nursed into continued
existence by himself. Here, now, is a point
of business on which he can put you into
possession of important facts. Facts, you know,
are the things after all."

A chatty conversation certainly ensued, in
which Mr. Pilkington cheerfully and calmly
related the usual routine of his life. He had
inherited all—his place in the world—his
place in the counting-house, and even his
wife. He had been spared the trouble of
courtship. The lady had been a acquaintance