ose pasteboard groves
where first he met his Tiny--and very natural, too.

There was music and the refreshments. It was, in fact, a reception.
Gaul's most lively sons bowed before Albion's fairest daughters, and
displayed that fund of verve and esprit which they rightly pride
themselves upon possessing, and which, of course, leave mere Englishmen
so far behind in the paths of love and chivalry.

When not thus actively engaged they whispered together in corners and
nudged each other, exchanging muttered comments, in which the word
charmante came conveniently to the fore. Thus, the lightsome son of
republican Gaul in society.

It is, however, high time to explain the reason of our own presence--of
our own reception by France's courteous representative. We are here to
meet Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and, moreover, to confine our attention to
the persons more or less implicated in the present history.

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough was undoubtedly the belle of the evening. She had
only to look in one of the many mirrors to make sure of that fact. And
if she wanted further assurance a hundred men in the room would have
been ready to swear to it. This lady had recently dawned on London
society--a young widow. She rarely mentioned her husband; it was
understood to be a painful subject. He had been attached to several
embassies, she said; he had a brilliant career before him, and suddenly
he had died abroad. And then she gave a little sigh and a bright smile,
which, being interpreted, meant "Let us change the subject."

There was never any doubt about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. She was
aristocratic to the tips of her dainty white fingers--composed, gentle,
and quite sure of herself. Quite the grand lady, as Lady Mealhead said.
But Mrs. Sydney Bamborough did not know Lady Mealhead, which may have
accounted for the titled woman's little sniff of interrogation. As a
matter of fact, Etta Sydney Bamborough came from excellent ancestry, and
could claim an uncle here, a cousin there, and a number of distant
relatives everywhere, should it be worth the while.

It was safe to presume that she was rich from the manner in which she
dressed, the number of servants and horses she kept, the general air of
wealth which pervaded her existence. That she was beautiful any one
could see for himself--not in the shop-windows, among the presumably
self-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper place--namely,
in her own and other aristocratic draw