s florid and his language less flowery.

"Among second-class but eminently genteel residences," he began, "I
could confidently recommend----"

"Where's this?" she interrupted, picking up another photograph, and
regarding it with apparent liking. Looking at the foot, she read aloud,
"Merrion Lodge, property of the Right Honorable Baroness Tristram of
Blent." She looked up sharply at Sloyd.

"Ye-es, ye-es," said Sloyd, without much enthusiasm. "A very pretty
neighborhood--a few miles from Blentmouth--rising place, Blentmouth. And
it's a cheap house--small, you see, and old-fashioned."

"Not hot and cold?" she asked with apparent innocence.

Sloyd smiled uncomfortably. "I could ascertain all that for you,
madame."

He waited for her to speak again, but she had turned thoughtful as she
sat fingering the photograph. Presently she smiled again and said, "Yes,
find out about Merrion Lodge for me, Mr Sloyd."

He began to gather up his pictures and papers.

"Is Baron Tristram alive?" she asked suddenly.

Sloyd recovered his air of superiority.

"Her ladyship is a peeress in her own right," he explained.

"She's not married then?"

"A widow, madame."

"And wasn't her husband Baron Tristram?"

"Her husband would not have been Lord--excuse me, madame, we say
Lord--Tristram of Blent. Her son will succeed to the title, of course.
The family reside at Blent Hall, only a few hundred yards from Merrion
Lodge, a picturesque mansion in the valley. The Lodge, you perceive,
stands high."

"I don't understand the family arrangements," remarked Madame Zabriska,
"but I daresay I shall learn it all if I go."

"If you had a 'Peerage,' madame----" he suggested, being himself rather
vague about the mysteries of a barony by writ.

"I'll get one from the waiter presently. Good-morning, Mr Sloyd."

Sloyd was making his bow when the door opened and a man came in. He was
tall, erect, and good-looking. Both air and manner were youthful,
although perhaps with a trace of artifice; he would pass for thirty-five
on a casual glance, but not after a longer one.

"My uncle, Major Duplay," said the little woman. "This is Mr Sloyd,
who's come about the house, uncle."

Duplay greeted the house-agent with grave courtesy, and entered into
conversation with him, while Madame Zabriska, relapsed again into an
alert silence, watched the pair.

The last thing that Madame Zabriska--the style sat oddly on her
child-like face and figure, but Mina