-neck race. As thus:--Maltby appears as
a Celebrity At Home in the World (Tuesday). Ha! No, Vanity
Fair (Wednesday) has a perfect presentment of Braxton by 'Spy.'
Neck-and-neck! No, Vanity Fair says 'the subject of next week's cartoon
will be Mr. Hilary Maltby.' Maltby wins! No, next week Braxton's in the
World.

Throughout May I kept, as it were, my eyes glued to my field-glasses.
On the first Monday in June I saw that which drew from me a hoarse
ejaculation.

Let me explain that always on Monday mornings at this time of year, when
I opened my daily paper, I looked with respectful interest to see what
bevy of the great world had been entertained since Saturday at Keeb
Hall. The list was always august and inspiring. Statecraft and Diplomacy
were well threaded there with mere Lineage and mere Beauty, with Royalty
sometimes, with mere Wealth never, with privileged Genius now and then.
A noble composition always. It was said that the Duke of Hertfordshire
cared for nothing but his collection of birds' eggs, and that the
collections of guests at Keeb were formed entirely by his young
Duchess. It was said that he had climbed trees in every corner of every
continent. The Duchess' hobby was easier. She sat aloft and beckoned
desirable specimens up.

The list published on that first Monday in June began ordinarily enough,
began with the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador and the Portuguese Minister.
Then came the Duke and Duchess of Mull, followed by four lesser Peers
(two of them Proconsuls, however) with their Peeresses, three Peers
without their Peeresses, four Peeresses without their Peers, and a dozen
bearers of courtesy-titles with or without their wives or husbands. The
rear was brought up by 'Mr. A. J. Balfour, Mr. Henry Chaplin, and Mr.
Hilary Maltby.'

Youth tends to look at the darker side of things. I confess that my
first thought was for Braxton.

I forgave and forgot his faults of manner. Youth is generous. It does
not criticise a strong man stricken.

And anon, so habituated was I to the parity of those two strivers, I
conceived that there might be some mistake. Daily newspapers are printed
in a hurry. Might not 'Henry Chaplin' be a typographical error for
'Stephen Braxton'? I went out and bought another newspaper. But Mr.
Chaplin's name was in that too.

'Patience!' I said to myself. 'Braxton crouches only to spring. He will
be at Keeb Hall on Saturday next.'

My mind was free now to dwell with pleasure on M