's a dove, she 's a duck, she 's a darling; she 's
completely won my heart. And I"--he took a few skipping steps, and
broke suddenly into song--

"'And I, and I have hers!'

We dote upon each other. She calls me her Troubadour. She has the
prettiest hands of any woman out of Paradise. She 's as sweet as
remembered kisses after death. She 's as sharp as a needle. She 's as
bright as morning roses lightly tipped with dew. She has a house of
her own in Kensington. And she's seventy-four years of age."

Anthony's interest appeared to wake again.

"Seventy-four? You call that young?" he asked, with the inflection of
one who was open to be convinced.

Adrian bridled.

"You deliberately put a false construction on my words. I was alluding
to Miss Sandus, as you 're perfectly well aware. Madame Torrebianca is
n't seventy-four, nor anything near it. She's not twenty-four. Say
about twenty-five and a fraction. With such hair too--and such
frocks--and eyes. Oh, my dear!" He kissed his fingers, and wafted the
kiss to the sky. "Eyes! Imagine twin moons rising over a tropical--"

"_Allons donc_," Anthony repressed him. "Contain yourself. Where is
Madame Torrebianca's husband?"

"Ah," said Adrian, with a sudden lapse of tone. "Where is Madame
Torrebianca's husband? That's the question. Where?" And he winked
suggestively. "How can I tell you where he is? If I could tell you
that, you don't suppose I 'd be wearing myself to a shadow with
uncongenial and ill-remunerated labour, in an obscure backwater of the
country, like this, do you? If I could tell you that, I could tell you
the secretest secrets of the sages, and I should be making my
everlasting fortune--oh, but money hand over fist--as the oracle of a
general information bureau, in Bond Street, or somewhere. I should be
a millionaire, and a celebrity, and a regular cock-of-the-walk. Where
is Madame Torrebianca's husband? Ay! Gentle shepherd, tell me where?"

"Ah?" wondered Anthony, off his guard. "A mysterious disappearance?"

"Bravo!" crowed Adrian, gleefully. "I am not only witty myself, but
the cause of wit in others." He patted Anthony on the shoulder. "A
mysterious disappearance. The _mot_ is capital. That's it, to a
hair's breadth. Oft thought before, but ne'er so well expressed. The
gentleman (as the rude multitude in their unfeeling way would put it)
is dead."

"On the whole," mused Anthony, looking him up and down with a