ed arm-in-arm with
Grand Dukes, gave an Emperor a hint as to the best cigars, and charmed a
Monarch by unfolding the secret of the aroma of a Guards' Punch, sacred
to the Household.

Bertie who believed in bivalves but not in heroics, thought it best to
take the oysters first and eschew the despair entirely.

He had one unchangeable quality--insouciance; and he had, moreover, one
unchangeable faith--the King. Lady Guenevere had reached home unnoticed
after the accident of their moonlight stag-hunt. His brother, meeting
him a day or two after their interview, had nodded affirmatively, though
sulkily, in answer to his inquiries, and had murmured that it was "all
square now." The Jews and the tradesmen had let him leave for Baden
without more serious measures than a menace, more or less insolently
worded. In the same fashion he trusted that the King's running at the
Bad, with the moneys he had on it, would set all things right for a
little while; when, if his family interest, which was great, would get
him his step in the First Life, he thought, desperate as things were,
they might come round again smoothly, without a notorious crash.

"You are sure the King will 'stay,' Bertie?" asked Lady Guenevere, who
had some hundreds in gloves (and even under the rose "sported a pony" or
so more seriously) on the event.

"Certain! But if he don't I promise you as pretty a tableau as your
Asnieres one; for your sake, I'll make the finish as picturesque as
possible. Wouldn't it be well to give me a lock of hair in readiness?"

Her ladyship laughed and shook her head; if a man killed himself, she
did not desire that her gracious name should be entangled with the
folly.

"No; I don't do those things," she said, with captivating waywardness.
"Besides, though the Oos looks cool and pleasant, I greatly doubt that
under any pressure you would trouble it; suicides are too pronounced for
your style, Bertie."

"At all events, a little morphia in one's own rooms would be quieter,
and better taste," said Cecil, while he caught himself listlessly
wondering, as he had wondered at Richmond, if this badinage were to turn
into serious fact--how much would she care.

"May your sins be forgiven you!" cried Chesterfield, the apostle of
training, as he and the Seraph came up to the table where Cecil and
Cos Wentworth were breakfasting in the garden of the Stephanien on the
race-day itself. "Liqueurs, truffles, and every devilment under the
s