word, the Jenkins of the Jenkins Pills with an arsenical base--that
is to say, the fashionable doctor of the year 1864, the busiest man in
Paris, was preparing to step into his carriage when a casement opened
on the first floor looking over the inner court-yard of the house, and a
woman's voice asked timidly:

"Shall you be home for luncheon, Robert?"

Oh, how good and loyal was the smile that suddenly illumined the
fine apostle-like head with its air of learning, and in the tender
"good-morning" which his eyes threw up towards the warm, white
dressing-gown visible behind the raised curtains; how easy it was to
divine one of those conjugal passions, tranquil and sure, which habit
re-enforces and with supple and stable bonds binds closer.

"No, Mrs. Jenkins." He was fond of thus bestowing upon her publicly
her title as his lawful wife, as if he found in it an intimate
gratification, a sort of acquittal of conscience towards the woman who
made life so bright for him. "No, do not expect me this morning. I lunch
in the Place Vendome."

"Ah! yes, the Nabob," said the handsome Mrs. Jenkins with a very marked
note of respect for this personage out of the _Thousand and One Nights_
of whom all Paris had been talking for the last month; then, after a
little hesitation, very tenderly, in a quite low voice, from between the
heavy tapestries, she whispered for the ears of the doctor only:

"Be sure you do not forget what you promised me."

Apparently it was something very difficult to fulfil, for at the