more than ever that Matilda must
never know he had entertained a personage with such a past.

"Angered by her indiscretions, Zeus inspired her with love for a mortal
man."

"Poor devil!" said Leander, involuntarily. "And what became of _him_,
sir?"

"There were several thus distinguished; amongst others, Anchises,
Adonis, and Cinyras. Of these, the first was struck by lightning; the
second slain by a wild boar; and the third is reputed to have perished
in a contest with Apollo."

"They don't seem to have had no luck, any of them," was Leander's
depressed conclusion.

"Aphrodite, or Venus, as you choose to call her, took a prominent part
in the Trojan war, the origin of which ten years' struggle may be traced
to a certain golden apple."

"What an old rag-bag it is!" thought Leander. "I'm only wasting money on
him. He's like a bran-pie at a fancy fair: what you get out of him is
always the thing you didn't want."

"No, no, Mr. Freemoult," he said, with some impatience; "leave out about
the war and the apple. It--it isn't either of them as I wanted to hear
about."

"Then I have done," said the old man, curtly. "You've had considerably
more than half a crown's worth, as it is."

"Look here, Mr. Freemoult," said the reckless hairdresser, "if you can't
give me no better value, I don't mind laying out another sixpence in
questions."

"Put your questions, then, by all means; and I'll give you your fair
sixpenn'orth of answers. Now, then, I'm ready for you. What's your
difficulty? Out with it."

"Why," said Leander, in no small confusion, "isn't there a story
somewhere of a statue to Venus as some young man (a long time back it
was, of course) was said to have put his ring on? and do you know the
rights of it? I--I can't remember how it ended, myself."

"Wait a bit, sir; I think I do remember something of the legend you
refer to. You found it in the _Earthly Paradise_, I make no doubt?"

"I found it in Rosherwich Gardens," Leander very nearly blurted out; but
he stopped himself, and said instead, "I don't think I've ever been
there, sir; not to remember it."

"Well, well! you're no lover of poetry, that's very evident; but the
story is there. Yes, yes; and Burton has a version of it, too, in his
_Anatomy_. How does it go? Give my head a minute to clear, and I'll tell
you. Ha! I have it! It was something like this: There was a certain
young gentleman of Rome who, on his wedding-day, went out to play
tennis; a