their son's illness. Paul and he were enjoying Venice, he said, and would
soon be home. "D--d hard luck the boy getting fever like this!" he wrote
in his laconic style, "but one never could trust foreign countries'
drains!"

And the Lady Henrietta waited in unsuspecting, well-bred patience.

Those were weary days for every one concerned. It wrung his father's heart
to see Paul prostrate there, as weak as an infant. All his splendid youth
and strength conquered by this raging blast. It was sad to have to listen
to his ever-constant moan:

"Darling, come back to me--darling, my Queen."

And even after he regained consciousness, it was equally pitiful to watch
him lying nerveless and white, blue shadows on his once fresh skin. And
most pitiful of all were his hands, now veined and transparent, falling
idly upon the sheet.

But at least the father realised it could have been no ordinary woman whose
going caused the shock which--even after a life of three weeks' continual
emotion--could prostrate his young Hercules. She must have been worth
something--this tiger Queen.

And one day, contrary to his usual custom, he addressed Tompson:

"What sort of a looking woman, Tompson?"

And Tompson, although an English valet, did not reply, "Who, Sir Charles?"
--he just rounded his eyes stolidly and said in his monotonous