for somebody's neck chain; he made up his
mind to order a Laski travelling-bag at a
hundred guineas; visions of expatriation at that
moment crossing his mind; he pondered
over the expediency—it being December—of
buying a patent silver cucumber-slice against
the spring; he paused to ask himself what
manner of maniac it was who laid out his
coin on mustard-and-cress irrigators; at last
he came to a shop that riveted his attention.

Photography is not now an uncommon rarity,
and Regent Street is not the place where
photographic artists least abound; yet it was
before an establishment more or less devoted
to the cultivation of photography, that
Gabriel Badger halted. In the centre of a
snow-white visiting-card he beheld a
photographic miniature!

"What do you call that! " he said, pointing
with his stick to one of the miniatures.

"Our new visiting-card, sir," replied the
shopman. " Quite a new invention! Very
chaste idea! Perfectly original conception!
I may say, unique!"

"What does it mean? What do you do
with it?"

"Do, sir? Allow me (won't you take a
seat, sir?) to explain. A party, sir, wishes
to have his likeness taken; wants to call
upon a friend; comes here, sir, and is
photographed, like that: goes and leaves his card:
no occasion for any name, sir. Great
convenience! Will you walk up, sir? Our
artist is in the studio."

"Um! ha! " said Gabriel Badger. "Thank
you! I'll think of it."

Thoughts of the new visiting-card
accompanied Gabriel Badger throughout his walk.
There was something to be made of the idea,
though he did not immediately see what.
Thus pre-occupied he turned into a quieter
street, till he came to a house where various
names on the door-posts indicated sets of
chambers.

"I wonder," he said, " if George Brackley
is at home!"

He ascended to the second-floor, rang, and
was admitted by the occupant himself.
Brackley was nominally an utter barrister;
but, having as yet no practice, and not being
inordinately wealthy, "wrote things," as
Badger said, "for the newspapers, magazines,
and so forth." He was well connected,
handsome; about five-and-twenty, and went
a good deal into society.

"I want you to take a turn with me," said
Gabriel Badger, "if you're not too busy."

"With pleasure," replied Brackley, "if you
don't mind waiting five minutes. I've only
to put the finishing touch to this article, and
then I'm your man. Try one of those
Cabanas; they are the best in London!"

Gabriel Badger threw himself into an easy-chair,
and smoked one of the recommended
cigars. Smoking and contemplation are
twins; and, while the fragrant cloud slowly
rolled in one direction, the smoker's eyes
turned in another. They settled on the
writer, whom Gabriel attentively examined.

"He is deuced good-looking, I must say,"
thought Gabriel. "I wish I had his face.
Again the smoker's eyes wandered, to light
upon an invitation-card that lay on the table
beside him. It ran thus:—

MRS. BROWNLOW SMITH AT HOME.
Wednesday, December Eight.
Fancy Dresses.

Back once more to the scribe, reverted the
orbs of Gabriel Badger. He looked at him
steadily. "You know the Brownlow Smiths?"
said he.

"Yes," replied Brackley, looking up from
his occupation. "So do you, don't you?"

"No. I have seen them at parties, that's
all. I should rather like to know them."

''Nothing easier. They are old friends of
mine. There's her card, for the eighth. I'll
take you, if you like. Do you mind going in
character?"

"Not at all. In fact, being a stranger
there, I should rather prefer it."

"Very good. Recollect, it's the eighth,
the day after to-morrow. A moment more.
Now, I'm for anything you like."

"You must dine with me to-day," said
Gabriel; "but, first, I want to show you
something."

Half-an-hour afterwards, Gabriel and his
friend had climbed to the skylight where
the new photographic cards were executed,
and Brackley was undergoing an operation
which Gabriel, in a generous mood, had
insisted on paying for. He claimed but a
slight remuneration: one of Brackley's new
cards as a souvenir. On the following day
it was in his possession.

Thanks to a neighbouring costumier, there
is no difficulty, now-a-days, in representing
any historical personage you please. After
due consideration, Gabriel Badger decided on
wearing the flowing garments and silver veil
of the Prophet of Khorassan. It was at once
a splendid costume and a complete incognito
as long as he chose to preserve it.

"Badger, you'll make a sensation to-night!"
said George Brackley, as they drove together
to Mrs. Brownlow Smith's.

The speaker was himself attired as "a
wild Albanian, kirtled to the knee;" and, as
lady novelists used to be in the habit of
saying (they never say so now), "his manly
form was set off to the utmost advantage by
the dress he had chosen, while the dark
masses of his raven hair waving in profusion
above his marble forehead," et cetera.

"Perhaps I may," replied Gabriel,
indulging in a little pardonable vanity;
"perhaps I may. But, I tell you what, Brackley,
I don't want to be recognised this evening.
Introduce me as your friend, and, if it comes
to mentioning names, cough."

Brackley, who was a good-natured, frank-
hearted fellow, without any arrière-pensée,did