e Marble Bride."

"The which?" asked Mr. Stafford.

"The Marble Bride, the Princess Frostina, otherwise Miss Aileen Jocyln,
of Jocyln Hall, Devonshire. You knew the old colonel, I think--he died
over a year ago, you remember."

"Ah, yes! I remember. Is she here with the Howards, and as handsome as
ever, no doubt?"

"Handsome to my mind, with an uplifted and unapproachable sort of
beauty. A fellow might as soon love some bright particular star, etc.,
as the fabulously wealthy heiress of all the Jocylns. She has no end of
suitors--all the best men here bow at the shrine of the ice-cold Aileen,
and all in vain."

"You among the rest, my friend?" with a light laugh.

"No, by Jove!" cried Mr. Mortimer; "that sort of thing, the marble
style, you know, never was to my taste. I admire Miss Jocyln immensely;
just as I do that moon up there, with no particular desire ever to get
nearer."

"What was that story I heard once, five years ago, about a broken
engagement? Wasn't Thetford of that ilk hero of the tale? The romantic
Thetford, who resigned his title and estate to a mysteriously-found
elder brother, you know. The story rang through the papers and the clubs
at the time like wildfire, and set the whole country talking, I
remember. She was engaged to him, wasn't she, and broke off?"

"So goes the story--but who knows? I recollect that odd affair perfectly
well; it was like the melo-dramas on the Surrey side of the Thames. I
know the 'mysteriously found elder brother,' too--very fine fellow, Sir
Guy Thetford, and married to the prettiest little wife the sun shines
on. I must say Rupert Thetford behaved wonderfully well in that
unpleasant business; very few men would do as he did--they would, at
least, have made a fight for the title and estates. By-the-way, I wonder
what ever became of him?"

"I left him at Sorrento," said Stafford, coolly.

"The deuce you did! What was he doing there?"

"Raving in the fever; so the people told me with whom he stopped. I just
discovered he was in the place as I was about to leave it. He had
fallen very low, I fancy; his pictures didn't sell, I suppose; he has
been in the painting line since he ceased to be Sir Rupert, and the
world has gone against him. Rather hard on him to lose fortune, title,
home, bride, and all at one fell swoop."

"And so you left him ill of the fever? Poor fellow!"

"Dangerously ill."

"And the people with whom he is will take very little care of him. He