trongest of his life, was still returned to him fourfold.

After some months of delicious _far niente_ in the south of France, they
came back to Paris. Though anything but rich, he was not absolutely
poor, after he had paid his debts, and the necessity to exertion rousing
his dormant talents, the _Lion_ turned _litterateur_. He was too
popular with men to be dropped because he had sold his stud or given up
his petits soupers. The romance of their story charmed the Parisians,
and, though (behind his back) they sometimes jested about the "Lion
amoureux," there were not a few who envied him his young love, and the
sunshine that shone round them in his inexpensive appartement garni.

Ernest _was_ singularly happy--and suddenly he became the star of the
literary, as he had been of the fashionable world. His mots were
repeated, his vaudevilles applauded, his feuilletons adored. The world
smiled on Nina and her _Lion_; it made little difference to them--they
had been as contented when it frowned.

But it made a good deal of difference across the Channel. Gordon began
to repent. Ernest's family was high, his Austrian connexions very
aristocratic: there would be something after all in belonging to a man
so well known. (Be successful, ami lecteur, and all your relatives will
love you.) Besides, he had found out that it is no use to put your faith
in princes, or clergymen. Eusebius had treated him very badly when he
found he could not get Nina and her money, and spoke against the poor
banker everywhere, calling him, with tender pastoral regret, a "worldly
Egyptian," a "Dives," a "whitened sepulchre," and all the rest of it.

Probably, too, stoic though he was, he missed the chevelure doree; at
any rate, he wrote to her stiffly, but kindly, and settled two thousand
a year upon her. Vaughan was very willing she should be friends with her
father, but nothing would make him draw a sou of the money. So Nina--the
only sly thing she ever did in her life--after a while contrived to buy
back the Surrey estate, and gave it to him, with no end of prayers and
caresses, on the Jour de l'An.

"And you do not regret, my darling," smiled Ernest, after wishing her
the new year's wishes, "having forgiven me for once drinking too much
Sillery, and all the other naughty things of my vie de garcon?"

"Regret!" interrupted Nina, vehemently--"regret that I have won your
love, live your life, share your cares and joys, regret that my
existence is on