liberal, with a character and a heart. In more ways than one she
was remarkable; she had an affection for me; indeed, some years
previously I had been in a way to play Albert Savaron to her
Francesca Colonna, an arrangement prevented only by my
constitutional dislike for any prolonged or sustained effort in a
world the slave of vanity and folly.

It was from the lips of this friend that I first heard the name
of Desiree Le Mire.

It was late in the afternoon on the fashionable drive. Long,
broad, and shady, though scarcely cool, it was here that we took
our daily carriage exercise; anything more strenuous is regarded
with horror by the ladies of Spain.

There was a shout, and a sudden hush; all carriages were halted
and their occupants uncovered, for royalty was passing. The
coach, a magnificent though cumbersome affair, passed slowly and
gravely by. On the rear seat were the princess and her little
English cousin, while opposite them sat the great duke himself.

By his side was a young man of five and twenty with a white face
and weak chin, and glassy, meaningless eyes. I turned to my
companion and asked in a low tone who he was. Her whispered
answer caused me to start with surprise, and I turned to her with
a question.

"But why is he in Madrid?"

"Oh, as to that," said my friend, smiling, "you must ask