which he always performed himself, but he was sufficiently astonished to
pause in his proceedings and look at his nephew with a very horrified
face.

"You do not mean to tell me, Basil, that you are tired of ladies--young
ladies?"

"My dear colonel," said the young man, quietly, "I am very sorry to tell
you that I find one chignon very much the same as another."

Colonel Mostyn sighed deeply. What Mentor could make anything out of
such a Telemachus? He resigned himself, thankful that what he called one
civilized taste remained--Basil enjoyed the opera.

"I would really sooner see him fall in love with an opera dancer than
remain what he is," thought the man of the world.

One evening they went to the opera. It was "Lucretia Borgia," and, as
usual, Basil Carruthers saw nothing but the stage. In vain did the
unwearied colonel call his attention to Lady Evelyn Hope, the lovely
blonde; the fascinating Spanish Countess Rosella; to the twin sisters,
the Ladies Isabel and Marie Duncan--he looked at them without interest.

"I wonder," thought the colonel to himself, "if the woman be living who
could touch that cold, icy heart!"

The opera was nearly over when he saw Basil looking intently at the
occupants of a box on the grand tier. He even raised his glass, and sat
for some minutes oblivious of everything and everyone except one central
figure. Very quietly and without attracting Basil's attention, Colonel