"MY nephew!" Lady Lydiard exclaimed in a tone which expressedastonishment, but certainly not pleasure as well. "How many yearsis it since you and I last met?" she asked, in her abruptlystraightforward way, as Mr. Felix Sweetsir approached herwriting-table.

The visitor was not a person easily discouraged. He took LadyLydiard's hand, and kissed it with easy grace. A shade of ironywas in his manner, agreeably relieved by a playful flash oftenderness.

"Years, my dear aunt?" he said. "Look in your glass and you willsee that time has stood still since we met last. How wonderfullywell you wear! When shall we celebrate the appearance of yourfirst wrinkle? I am too old; I shall never live to see it."

He took an easychair, uninvited; placed himself close at hisaunt's side, and ran his eye over her ill-chosen dress with anair of satirical admiration. "How perfectly successful!" he said,with his well-bred insolence. "What a chaste gayety of color!"

"What do you want?" asked her Ladyship, not in the least softenedby the compliment.

"I want to pay my respects to my dear aunt," Felix answered,perfectly impenetrable to his ungracious reception, and perfectlycomfortable in a spacious arm-chair.

No pen-and-ink portrait need surely be drawn of FelixSweetsir--he is too well-known a picture in society. The littlelith e man, with his bright, restless eyes, and his longiron-gray hair falling in curls to his shoulders, his airy stepand his cordial manner; his uncertain age, his innumerableaccomplishments, and his unbounded popularity--is he not familiareverywhere, and welcome everywhere? How gratefully he receives,how prodigally he repays, the cordial appreciation of an admiringworld! Every man he knows is "a charming fellow." Every woman hesees is "sweetly pretty." What picnics he gives on the banks ofthe Thames in the summer season! What a well-earned little incomehe derives from the whist-table! What an inestimable actor he isat private theatricals of all sorts (weddings included)! Did younever read Sweetsir's novel, dashed off in the intervals ofcurative perspiration at a German bath? Then you don't know whatbrilliant fiction really is. He has never written a second work;he does everything, and only does it once. One song--the despairof professional composers. One picture--just to show how easily agentleman can take up an art and drop it again. A reallymultiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishmentsscintillating perpetually at his fingers' ends. If these poorpages have achieved nothing else, they have done a service topersons not in society by presenting them to Sweetsir. In hisgracious 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 gotto say for yourself? You have been abroad, of course! Where?"

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

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

Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightfulgood-humor.

"What a bright creature you are!" he exclaimed. "What would I notgive for your flow of spirits! Yes--one does spend money inParis, as you say. The clubs, the stock exchange, therace-course: you try your luck here, there, and everywhere; andyou lose and win, win and lose--and you haven't a dull day tocomplain of." He paused, his smile died away, he lookedinquiringly at Lady Lydiard. "What a wonderful existence yoursmust be," he resumed. "The everlasting question with your needyfellow-creatures, 'Where am I to get money?' is a question thathas never passed your lips. Enviable woman!" He paused oncemore--surprised and puzzled this time. "What is the matter, mydear aunt? You seem to be suffering under some uneasiness."

"I am suffering under your conversation," her Ladyship answeredsharply. "Money is a sore subject with me just now," she went on,with her eyes on her nephew, watching the effect of what shesaid. "I have spent five hundred pounds this morning with ascrape of my pen. And, only a week since, I yielded to temptationand made an addition to my picture-gallery." She looked, as shesaid those words, towards an archway at the further end of theroom, closed by curtains of purple velvet. "I really tremble whenI think of what that one picture cost me before I could call itmine. A landscape by Hobbema; and the National Gallery biddingagainst me. Never mind!" she concluded, consoling herself, asusual, with considerations that were beneath her. "Hobbema willsell at my death for a bigger price than I gave for him--that'sone comfort!" She looked again at Felix; a smile of mischievoussatisfaction began to show itself in her face. "Anything wrongwith your watch-chain?" she asked.

Felix, absently playing with his watch-chain, started as if hisaunt had suddenly awakened him. While Lady Lydiard had beenspeaking, his vivacity had subsided little by little, and hadleft him looking so serious and so old that his most intimatefriend would hardly have known him again. Roused by the suddenquestion that had been put to him, he seemed to be casting aboutin his mind in search of the first excuse for his silence thatmight turn up.

"I was wondering," he began, "why I miss something when I lookround this beautiful room; something familiar, you know, that Ifully expected to find here."

"Tommie?" suggested Lady Lydiard, still watching her nephew asmaliciously as ever.

"That's it!" cried Felix, seizing his excuse, and rallying hisspirits. "Why don't I hear Tommie snarling behind me; why don't Ifeel Tommie's teeth in my trousers?"

The smile vanished from Lady Lydiard's face; the tone taken byher nephew in speaking of her dog was disrespectful in theextreme. She showed him plainly that she disapproved of it. Felixwent on, nevertheless, impenetrable to reproof of the silentsort. "Dear little Tommie! So delightfully fat; and such aninfernal temper! I don't know whether I hate him or love him.Where is he?"

"Ill in bed," answered her ladyship, with a gravity whichstartled even Felix himself. "I wish to speak to you aboutTommie. You know everybody. Do you know of a good dog-doctor? Theperson I have employed so far doesn't at all satisfy me."

"Professional person?" inquired Felix.

"Yes."

"All humbugs, my dear aunt. The worse the dog gets the bigger thebill grows, don't you see? I have got the man for you--agentleman. Knows more about horses and dogs than all theveterinary surgeons put together. We met in the boat yesterdaycrossing the Channel. You know him by name, of course? LordRotherfield's youngest son, Alfred Hardyman."

"The owner of the stud farm? The man who has bred the famousracehorses?" cried Lady Lydiard. "My dear Felix, how can Ipresume to trouble such a great personage about my dog?"

Felix burst into his genial laugh. "Never was modesty morewoefully out of place," he rejoined. "Hardyman is dying to bepresented to your Ladyship. He has heard, like everybody, of themagnificent decorations of this house, and he is longing to seethem. His chambers are close by, in Pall Mall. If he is at homewe will have him here in five minutes. Perhaps I had better seethe dog first?"

Lady Lydiard shook her head. "Isabel says he had better not bedisturbed," she answered. "Isabel understands him better thananybody."

Felix lifted his lively eyebrows with a mixed expression ofcuriosity and surprise. "Who is Isabel?"

Lady Lydiard was vexed with herself for carelessly mentioningIsabel's name in her nephew's presence. Felix was not the sort ofperson whom she was desirous of admitting to her confidence indomestic matters. "Isabel is an addition to my household sinceyou were here last," she answered shortly.

"Young and pretty?" inquired Felix. "Ah! you look serious, andyou don't answer me. Young and pretty, evidently. Which may I seefirst, the addition to your household or the addition to yourpicture-gallery? You look at the picture-gallery--I am answeredagain." He rose to approach the archway, and stopped at his firststep forward. "A sweet girl is a dreadful responsibility, aunt,"he resumed, with an ironical assumption of gravity. "Do you know,I shouldn't be surprised if Isabel, in the long run, cost youmore than Hobbema. Who is this at the door?"

The person at the door was Robert Moody, returned from the bank.Mr. Felix Sweetsir, being near-sighted, was obliged to fit hiseye-glass in position before he could recognize the primeminister of Lady Lydiard's household.

"Ha! our worthy Moody. How well he wears! Not a gray hair on hishead--and look at mine! What dye do you use, Moody? If he had myopen disposition he would tell. As it is, he looks unutterablethings, and holds his tongue. Ah! if I could only have held _my_tongue--when I was in the diplomatic service, you know--what aposition I might have occupied by this time! Don't let meinterrupt you, Moody, if you have anything to say to LadyLydiard."

Having acknowledged Mr. Sweetsir's lively greeting by a formalbow, and a grave look of wonder which respectfully repelled thatvivacious gentleman's flow of humor, Moody turnedtowards his mistress.

"Have you got the bank-note?" asked her Ladyship.

Moody laid the bank-note on the table.

"Am I in the way?" inquired Felix.

"No," said his aunt. "I have a letter to write; it won't occupyme for more than a few minutes. You can stay here, or go and lookat the Hobbema, which you please."

Felix made a second sauntering attempt to reach thepicture-gallery. Arrived within a few steps of the entrance, hestopped again, attracted by an open cabinet of Italianworkmanship, filled with rare old china. Being nothing if not acultivated amateur, Mr. Sweetsir paused to pay his passingtribute of admiration before the contents of the cabinet."Charming! charming!" he said to himself, with his head twistedappreciatively a little on one side. Lady Lydiard and Moody lefthim in undisturbed enjoyment of the china, and went on with thebusiness of the bank-note.

"Ought we to take the number of the note, in case of accident?"asked her Ladyship.

Moody produced a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket. "I tookthe number, my Lady, at the bank."

"Very well. You keep it. While I am writing my letter, supposeyou direct the envelope. What is the clergyman's name?"

Moody mentioned the name and directed the envelope. Felix,happening to look round at Lady Lydiard and the steward whilethey were both engaged in writing, returned suddenly to the tableas if he had been struck by a new idea.

"Is there a third pen?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I write a lineat once to Hardyman, aunt? The sooner you have his opinion aboutTommie the better--don't you think so?"

Lady Lydiard pointed to the pen tray, with a smile. To showconsideration for her dog was to seize irresistibly on thehigh-road to her favor. Felix set to work on his letter, in alarge scrambling handwriting, with plenty of ink and a noisy pen."I declare we are like clerks in an office," he remarked, in hischeery way. "All with our noses to the paper, writing as if welived by it! Here, Moody, let one of the servants take this atonce to Mr. Hardyman's."

The messenger was despatched. Robert returned, and waited nearhis mistress, with the directed envelope in his hand. Felixsauntered back slowly towards the picture-gallery, for the thirdtime. In a moment more Lady Lydiard finished her letter, andfolded up the bank-note in it. She had just taken the directedenvelope from Moody, and had just placed the letter inside it,when a scream from the inner room, in which Isabel was nursingthe sick dog, startled everybody. "My Lady! my Lady!" cried thegirl, distractedly, "Tommie is in a fit? Tommie is dying!"

Lady Lydiard dropped the unclosed envelope on the table, andran--yes, short as she was and fat as she was, ran--into theinner room. The two men, left together, looked at each other.

"Moody," said Felix, in his lazily-cynical way, "do you think ifyou or I were in a fit that her Ladyship would run? Bah! theseare the things that shake one's faith in human nature. I feelinfernally seedy. That cursed Channel passage--I tremble in myinmost stomach when I think of it. Get me something, Moody."

"What shall I send you, sir?" Moody asked coldly.

"Some dry curacoa and a biscuit. And let it be brought to me inthe picture-gallery. Damn the dog! I'll go and look at Hobbema."

This time he succeeded in reaching the archway, and disappearedbehind the curtains of the picture-gallery.