ough. I should vote it genuine right enough."

"It's extremely dirty," yawned Lord Merivale, casting a longing look at
the green grass of the park opposite and thinking of his new shorthorns
in Somersetshire.

"Philistine!" exclaimed his wife, tapping him playfully on the arm. "You
are incorrigible. Dirty! why, that is tone."

"Ah," returned her husband, turning away and gazing admiringly at a
bull by Potter. He was as wise as he had been before; for the jargon of
Art and fashionable society was not one of his accomplishments.

"I tell you who would be a good judge," put in Mr. Paxhorn.

The rest turned inquiring eyes on him.

"Who?" asked Lord Standon.

"Adrien Leroy. He is an artist, though he keeps his talents as secret as
if they were crimes. It was he who did the designs for my last book."

A murmur of astonishment ran through the room. Nearly every one knew
that it was to the illustrations the book owed the greater portion of
its success.

"A modesty quite unfashionable," exclaimed Lady Merivale, whose
beautiful face had flushed ever so slightly at the mention of Adrien's
name.

"Yes," admitted Paxhorn. "Men have to proclaim their gifts very loudly
in the market-place, before they sell their wares nowadays."

"Oh, Adrien is a veritable Crichton," put in Lord Standon. "There is
very little he does not know, and even that is made up by the estimable
Jasper."

"Yes, I saw them together got half an hour ago," said Paxhorn. "If I had
known of this picture, I would have got them to come with me; for
Vermont is a genius at settling any question under the sun."

"He's not always right, though," put in Lord Merivale, quietly. "What
about that horse of Leroy's? Wasn't it Vermont who was so sure of his
winning the race? Yet his Majesty did not win, did he?"

"No, I know that," said Standon, with a rueful smile, as he thought of
his added debts.

"That was not Vermont's lack of judgment," put in Paxhorn, who, for
private reasons of his own, always stood up for that gentleman. "I am
sure the horse would have won had it not been for Adrien's ill-timed
generosity."

"What was that?" inquired Lady Merivale, looking keenly over at him.

"He gave the jockey a ten-pound note the night before the race; and, of
course, the fellow got drunk and pulled the 'King' up at the last
fence."

"And lost his life, did he not?" asked one of the artists.

Lord Standon nodded, thoughtfully. He was attached to his friend Ler