valiant disposition, and wanted something more in life than abject assent, and yielding beds of down. She wanted resistance, almost defeat, in order to give zest to victory. She wanted a strong man to fight with. In her heart, she believed she was stronger than any man she was likely to come across; but there were men, no doubt, who might be dangerous and formidable enough to be temporarily interesting. What manner of man in other respects this champion might be, would matter little to the Marquise. Like most women of first-rate ability, she was at bottom a democrat: rank was her convenience, but she had no respect for it or belief in it. Had she detected, in a stevedore or a Hindoo, stuff that was not to be had elsewhere, she would have received and entertained him. Meanwhile, she was well content to put up with Philip Lancaster. There was stuff in him: there was perhaps something in his past relations with her which rendered their present mutual attitude more piquant ; and then, there was that little bud of a romance which the Marquise had surprised on Richmond Hill. Upon the whole, she was justified in giving her little party.

Sir Francis Bendibow was the first to arrive, bringing with him Merton Fillmore, whom he introduced as follows: "A man, my dear creature, whom I've long wished to make known to you. Most brilliant fellow in London; my personal friend, as well as the trusted adviser of the House." He added in her ear, "You know-Fillmore, son of old Cadwallader Fillmore . . . uncle the Honourable ... and Constance, you know . . . married Lord Divorn . . . that's the man! make friends with each other."

"I think," said the Marquise, glancing at the lawyer as she gave him her hand, "that Mr. Fillmore is more accustomed to choose his friends than to be chosen."

This bit of impromptu criticism arrested Fillmore's attention. After a pause he said:

"My friends are my clients, and I don't choose them."

"I mean, you have not found it wise to be troubled with If I were a man, I might think as you do, but I should act otherwise. But then I should not be a barrister."

women.

"I am a solicitor."

The Marquise laughed.

"Men of real genius distinguish their professions-they are not distinguished by them. . . I comprehend!"

"You would have made a better solicitor than I," said Fillmore, with something like a smile. "Your cross-examination would be very damaging."

"We shall be all the better friends,” rejoined the Marquise, goodhumouredly. "Mr. Fillmore is charming," she added to Sir Francis, who had just returned from a promenade to the other end of the room, where he had been admiring himself in a looking-glass, under cover of smelling a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece.

"Ay, indeed, kindred spirits," said the baronet, nodding and smiling complacently. "But how is this, eh? May we hope to monopolise these privileges all the evening?"

"Here comes a rival," answered the Marquise, as the door opened, and Mr. Thomas Bendibow was ushered in. "I expect Mr. Philip Lancaster also. Do you know him, Mr. Fillmore? How do you do, Tom? What lovely flowers! For me? You are preux chevalier; that is more than your papa ever did for me."

"You know I don't think of anything but you-well, I don't, by George! Oh, I say, don't you look ravishing to-night, Perdita!" exclaimed this ingenuous youth. "I say, there ain't any other people coming, are there? I want to have you all to myself tonight."

"Tom, you are not to make love to your sister-before company!"

"Oh, sister be Lancaster fellow--"

I know-you're going to flirt with that

"You have not told me if you know Mr. Lancaster?” said the Marquise, turning to Merton Fillmore.

"I have read his 'Sunshine of Revolt,'" replied the solicitor. "Good Gad!" ejaculated Sir Francis, below his breath. He was gazing towards the doorway, in which several persons now appeared -the Lockhart party, in fact-and his ruddy visage became quite pallid.

The Marquise's beautiful eyes lighted up. She had had some secret doubts as to whether Lancaster would come, for she understood not a little of the intricacies of that gentleman's character; but here he was, and she felt that she had scored the first success in the encounter. To get the better of anyone, the first condition is to get him within your reach. But Perdita took care that the brightness of her eyes should not shine upon Philip too soon. She turned first upon Mrs. Lockhart and Marion. She had taken the former's measure at first sight, and knew how to make her feel pleased and at ease. Marion was a more complex problem; but Marion did not know the world, and it was simple enough to disappoint her probable anticipation that the Marquise would at once onopolise Philip. The Marquise lost no time in introducing Philip

to Mr. Fillmore, on the basis of the latter's having read "The Sunshine of Revolt," and left the two gentlemen to make friends or foes of each other as they might see fit. She then devoted herself to the two ladies, and incidentally to Mr. Grant, whom she had invited simply as a friend of theirs, and in whom she took no particular interest. Mr. Thomas Bendibow, considering himself slighted, strolled off into an adjoining room to indulge his wrongs over a glass of sherry. The baronet, who was almost manifestly labouring under some unusual embarrassment or emotion, attached himself, after some hesitation, to the Marquise's party, and endeavoured to monopolise the conversation of Mr. Grant. That gentleman, however, met his advances with a quiet reticence, which was beyond Sir Francis's skill to overcome. By degrees he found himself constrained to address himself more and more to Mrs. and Miss Lockhart, and Perdita, somewhat to her own surprise, was drawn more and more to look and speak to Mr. Grant. There was something about him-in his old-fashioned but noticeable aspect, in his quiet, observant manner in the things he said-that arrested the Marquise's attention. in spite of herself. Here was a man who had seen and known something a man-not a suit of clothes, with a series of sct grimaces, attitudes, and phrases. Manhood had an invincible attraction for this lady, no matter what the guise in which it presented itself to her. At last she and Mr. Grant insensibly settled down to what was practically a tête-à-tête.

"You must find it lonely here in England after so many years,” she said.

"My exile is a cage of invisibility for me," answered Mr. Grant. "I find few to see and recognise me, but that does not prevent me from seeing and recognising much that is familiar. I find that

England stands where it did, and is none the less homelike for having forgotten me. Indeed, one may say, without being cynical, that the memory of old friends is almost as pleasant as, and in some respects more convenient than, their presence would be."

The Marquise laughed. "I think your old friends might call that cynical, if they could hear it."

"You would recognise its truth in your own case," said Mr. Grant, half interrogatively.

She lifted her eyebrows, as if the remark required explanation. "An old fellow like me sometimes knows more about the origins of the younger generation than they know themselves. I had the honour of your acquaintance when you were learning to say 'Papa,' and wore little pink slippers."

"Ah!" murmured the Marquise, looking at him keenly. "Then

"she paused.

"And your father also," said Mr. Grant, in a low voice.

"Sir Francis Bendibow," said Perdita, after a pause.

Mr. Grant met her glance, and said nothing.

"Now I think of it," remarked Perdita, tapping her chin lightly with the handle of her fan, "I am inclined to agree with you. Memories may sometimes be more convenient than presence.”

"It is not always the convenient that happens, however," rejoined the old gentleman. "And convenience itself may sometimes, on some accounts, be less desirable than an acceptance of facts. If Sir Francis Bendibow, let us say, had been suspected of a grave indiscretion in early life, and had in consequence disappeared from society, leaving his family behind him"

"His family would probably, in the course of time, become reconciled to his absence," interrupted Perdita, colouring slightly. "Human relationship is not so rigid and important a matter as romancers and sentimentalists try to make it out, Mr. Grant. As long as my child, or my husband, or my father continues to live within my sight and reach, I acknowledge myself the mother, wife, or daughter, and conduct myself accordingly. But if they vanish from my knowledge and remembrance, I learn to do without them, and they have no further concern with me. If they die, I shall not weep for them, and if they return, I shall not care for them. If I were more imaginative, or more inclined to feel my emotions to order, it might be otherwise. But it is my nature to feel my own emotions, and not other people's, and to see things as they are, and not as poetry pretends. My father, sir, is not the man who brought me into the world and then abandoned me, but-on the whole,” she added, suddenly and completely changing her tone and manner, and speaking smilingly, "I prefer to say that I have no father at all, and want none."

Her speech had been more like that of a frigid and saturnine man, than like the utterance of a beautiful and youthful woman. Mr. Grant had listened to it attentively. He appeared to meditate for a few moments after she had ceased, and then he said, "I too have felt the force of circumstances, and should be the last to underrate it. Ambassadors, you know"-here he smiled a littleare less deaf to the voice of reason than principals might be. I am entrusted with plenary powers, and may relinquish my side of the discussion definitively. I should regret my mission, were it not that it has obtained me a charming and valuable acquaintance"-here he

bowed ceremoniously-"which I trust may continue. If I have annoyed you, be satisfied that I shall never subject you to the same annoyance again nor to any other, I hope."

"I have made no disguise of my selfishness, you see," said the Marquise, with gaiety in her voice, but with a somewhat contradictory expression about her eyes and mouth. After a moment she went on, as if impelled, despite a certain reluctance, " But I am unselfish. too, as you will find out if you come to know me better. You will find out that I am not a daughter whom any parent with a sense of prudence and self-respect would put out his hand to reclaim." And hereupon the Marquise laughed, while tears sparkled for an instant on her eyelashes.

"What says our fair hostess ?" called out the voice of Sir Francis Bendibow, from the other side of the table, where he was conversing with the other two ladies, while his eyes and thoughts were elsewhere; "Should a man who loves two women give up both of them, or settle upon one? Come, ladies, the Marquise shall be our umpire— eh?"

"It is not a question for an umpire to decide," replied the Marquise. "Let the man put his case before the two women, and leave them to settle it between themselves."

"But we are supposing him to be an ordinary man, not a hero." "Then, he would not find more than one woman to be in love with him."

"And it might turn out," remarked Marion, "that he was deceived in supposing himself capable of being really in love with anybody."

"If he were a hero, I'm sure he would not love more than one," said Mrs. Lockhart gently.

'Altogether, your problem appears to have been deprived of all its conditions," observed Fillmore, who, with Philip Lancaster, had approached during the discussion.

"A man who really loves one woman, finds in her all that is worth loving in all women," Lancaster said.

"A poet's eyes," remarked the Marquise, "create in the woman he loves nine-tenths of what he sees there."

"And may blind him, for a time, to nine-tenths more," was the poet's reply; at which everyone laughed except Mrs. Lockhart and Mr. Grant, but which very few understood.

After this, the company readjusted itself: the Marquise made Philip sit down and talk to her and Marion; and the three gradually got on very good terms with one another. Meanwhile, Sir Francis