she thrust it boldly under his
nose. It was called "The Unrealized Ideal," and was a setting of some
words by a real poet then living, whose name caused this reader to
murmur, "London Lyrics!" The composer was Sir Julian Crum. But his name
was read without a word, or a movement of the strong shoulders and the
tanned neck on which Miss Bouverie's eyes were fixed.

"You had better play this yourself," said he, after peering at the music
through his glass. "It is rather too many for me."

And, strangely crestfallen, Miss Bouverie took his place.

"My only love is always near,--
In country or in town
I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

"She foots it, ever fair and young,
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung
And hangs below her waist."

For that was the immortal trifle. How much of its immortality it will
owe to the setting of Sir Julian Crum is a matter of opinion, but here
is an anonymous view.

"I like the words, Miss Bouverie, but the setting doesn't take me. It
might with repetition. It seems lacking in go and simplicity;
technically, I should say, a gem. But there can be no two opinions of
your singing of such a song; that's the sort of arrow to go straight to
the heart of the public--a world-wide public--and if I am the first to
say it to you, I hope you will one day remember it in my favor.
Meanwhile it is for me to thank you--from my heart--and to say good-by!"

He was holding out a sunburnt hand.

"Must you go?" she asked, withholding her own in frank disappointment.

"Unfortunately, yes; my man is waiting for me with both horses in the
scrub. But before I go I want to ask a great favor of you. It is--not to
tell a soul I have been here."

For a singer and a woman of temperament, Hilda Bouverie had a
wonderfully level head. She inquired his reason in no promising tone.

"You will see at Mrs. Clarkson's concert."

Hilda started.

"You are coming to that?"

"Without fail--to hear Mrs. Clarkson sing five songs--your song among
them!"

"But it's hers; it has been the other way about."

The gay smile broadened on the swarthy face; a very bright eye twinkled
through the monocle into those of Miss Bouverie.

"Well, will you promise to say nothing about me? I have a reason which
you will be the first to appreciate in due season."

Hilda hesitated, reasoned with herself, and finally gave her word. Their
hands