spent abroad, where he could find just the atmosphere that suited his
delicate, artistic nature. After a visit of two months he was about
returning to Paris for a stay of five years. At last he was going to
apply himself steadily and try to be less the dilettante.

The company which Maurice Oakley brought together to say good-bye to his
brother on this occasion was drawn from the best that this fine old
Southern town afforded. There were colonels there at whose titles and
the owners' rights to them no one could laugh; there were brilliant
women there who had queened it in Richmond, Baltimore, Louisville, and
New Orleans, and every Southern capital under the old regime, and there
were younger ones there of wit and beauty who were just beginning to
hold their court. For Francis was a great favourite both with men and
women. He was a handsome man, tall, slender, and graceful. He had the
face and brow of a poet, a pallid face framed in a mass of dark hair.
There was a touch of weakness in his mouth, but this was shaded and half
hidden by a full mustache that made much forgivable to beauty-loving
eyes.

It was generally conceded that Mrs. Oakley was a hostess whose guests
had no awkward half-hour before dinner. No praise could be higher than
this, and to-night she had no need to exert herself to maintain this
reputation. Her brother-in-law was the life of the assembly; he had wit
and daring, and about him there was just that hint of charming danger
that made him irresistible to women. The guests heard the dinner
announced with surprise,--an unusual thing, except in this house.

Both Maurice Oakley and his wife looked fondly at the artist as he went
in with Claire Lessing. He was talking animatedly to the girl, having
changed the general trend of the conversation to a manner and tone