had changed Stafford from a light-hearted man, with an
immense capacity for pleasure, to a moody individual to whom the
pleasures of life seemed absolutely distasteful.

One afternoon Howard sauntered into Stafford's room and found him
sitting in his easy-chair with a book turned face downwards on his
knee, and his pipe in his mouth. Tiny, the black-and-tan terrier, who
was lying coiled up on a cushion at his master's feet, heard Howard
step on the stairs and barked sharply for a moment, then glancing at
Stafford, with a reassuring air, coiled himself up again and subsided
into spasmodic growls and whines of welcome; for the mite was fond of
Howard.

"Asleep, Staff?" he asked, as, with a kind of groan at the heat, he
dropped his hat on the table and sank on to the couch. "By Jove, you
have the best of it in here--it is out of the sun, at any rate. How
that dog can lie on a stuffy cushion! I thought you were going down to
Lady Brook's, at Richmond, this afternoon?"

"Was it this afternoon?" said Stafford. "I'd forgotten. I'm sorry: but
my father will be there and will look after Maude."

Howard glanced at the weary-looking face as he helped himself to a
cigarette.

"You're well out of it! A lady who would give a garden-party on such an
afternoon as this, is, indeed, _la belle dame sans mercie!_ Good
heavens! when I think of the suffering the votaries of fashion undergo
in one season, I've no pity left for the benighted Hindoo women who
sacrifice themselves to Juggernaut. Which reminds me that there is a
tremendously swagger function on at Clarendon House tonight, isn't
there?"

Stafford nodded, and refilled and relit his pipe.

"Yes," he said, "I had forgotten it; but Maude sent me round a note to
remind me of it, and, of course, I must go. I envy you, Howard: you can
stay away."

"That's what I can't do," said Howard, with a whimsical smile. "I am
drawn, into the vortex; I am dragged at the chariot wheels of that
wonderful father of yours. I am the victim of a peculiar kind of
fascination which is as irresistible as the mesmeric influence or
hypnotism. I feel towards Sir Stephen as I should feel towards Napoleon
the Great, if he were alive. I follow and gaze at him, so to speak,
with my mouth agape and a fatuous smile over a countenance which I once
flattered myself was intelligent. I am dazed, bewildered by his genius,
his audacity, his marvellous courage and resource. Do you know,
Stafford, I think it woul