written a second work; he does everything, and only does it once. One
song--the despair of professional composers. One picture--just to show
how easily a gentleman can take up an art and drop it again. A
really multiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishments
scintillating perpetually at his fingers' ends. If these poor pages
have achieved nothing else, they have done a service to persons not
in society by presenting them to Sweetsir. In his gracious company
the narrative brightens; and writer and reader (catching reflected
brilliancy) understand each other at last, thanks to Sweetsir.

"Well," said Lady Lydiard, "now you are here, what have you got to say
for yourself? You have been abroad, of course! Where?"

"Principally at Paris, my dear aunt. The only place that is fit to live
in--for this excellent reason, that the French are the only people who
know how to make the most of life. One has relations and friends in
England and every now and then one returns to London--"

"When one has spent all one's money in Paris," her Ladyship interposed.
"That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"

Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightful good-humor.

"What a bright creature you are!" he exclaimed. "What would I not give
for your flow of spirits! Yes--one does spend money in Paris, as you
say. The clubs, the stock exchange, the race-course: you try your luck
here, there, and everywhere; and you lose and win, win and lose--and you
haven't a dull day to complain of." He paused, his smile died away, he
looked inquiringly at Lady Lydiard. "What a wonderful existence
yours must be," he resumed. "The everlasting question with your needy