irely upon Cross and Blackwell's
potted meats and stale bread," said Reggie seriously.

"Unfortunately that is only a _canard_ invented by my dearest enemies."

II.

"Jim won't be back till very late, I expect," said Mrs. Windsor to her
cousin, as they passed through the hall that night about twelve o'clock,
after their return from the opera. "I am tired, and cannot go to my
parties. Come to my room, Emily, and we will drink some Bovril, and have
a talk. I love drinking Bovril in secret. It seems like a vice. And then
it is wholesome, and vices always do something to one--make one's nose
red, or bring out wrinkles, or spots, or some horror. Two cups of
Bovril, Henderson," she added to the butler, in a parenthesis. "Take off
your cloak, Emily, and lie down on this sofa. What a pity we can't have
a fire. That is the chief charm of the English summer. It nearly always
necessitates fires. But to-night it is really warm."

Lady Locke took off her cloak quietly, and laid it down on a chair. She
looked fresh and healthy, but rather emotional. She had not been to
"Faust" for such a long time, that to-night she had been deeply moved,
despite the intercepting chatter of her companions. Mr. Amarinth's
epigrams had been especially voluble during the garden scene.

"It has been a delightful evening," she said.

"Do you think so? I thought you would like Lord Reggie."

"I meant the music."

"The music! Oh! I see. Yes, 'Faust' is always nice; a little threadbare
though, now. Old operas are like old bonnets, I always think. They ought
to be remodelled, retrimmed from time to time. If we could keep Gounod's
melodies now, and get them reharmonised by Saint-Saens or Bruneau, it
would be charming."

"I think it is a mercy something stands still nowadays," said Lady
Locke, lying down easily on the sofa, and leaning her dark head against
the cushions. "If all the old-fashioned operas and pictures and books
were swept away, like the old-fashioned people, we should have no
landmarks at all. London is not the same London it was ten years ago."

Mrs. Windsor lifted her eyebrows.

"The same London! I should hope not. Why, Aubrey Beardsley and Mr.
Amarinth had not been invented then, and 'The Second Mrs. Tanqueray' had
never been written, and women hardly ever smoked, and----"

"And men did not wear green carnations," Lady Locke said.

Mrs. Windsor turned towards her cousin, and lifted her darkened eyebrows
to her fair fring