my remarks patiently, and when I had ended, she even thanked me for my
advice.

'And now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face?' she asked, as we
were nearing Birmingham. 'Your story cannot be very long, and I shall
have just enough time to hear it.'

I smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly: 'I am an artist,
madam, and I had counted much on the success of my first historical
painting. It has failed, and I am both penniless and infamous. I am
the "presumptuous dauber" of the critics--despised by my
creditors--emphatically a failure throughout.'

'Pshaw!' cried the lady impatiently; 'and what is that for a grief? a
day's disappointment which a day's labour can repair! To me, your
troubles seem of no more worth than a child's tears when he has broken
his newest toy! Here is Birmingham, and I must bid you farewell.
Perhaps you will open the door for me? Good-morning: you have made my
journey pleasant, and relieved my ennui. I shall be happy to see you
in town, and to help you forward in your career.'

And with these words, said in a strange, indifferent, matter-of-fact
tone, as of one accustomed to all the polite offers of good society,
which mean nothing tangible, she was lifted from the carriage by a
train of servants, and borne off the platform.

I looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the address
of 'Mrs Arden, Belgrave Square.'

I found my friend waiting for me; and in a few moments was seated