lence,
directed and animated by culture. I dismissed all thoughts of the Pauper
Lunatic Asylum and the Nihilists, and was whirled through miles of park
and up an avenue lighted by electricity. We reached the baronial gateway
of the Towers, a vast Gothic pile in the later manner of Inigo Jones, and
a seneschal stood at the foot of a magnificent staircase to receive me. I
had never seen a seneschal before, but I recognized him by the peeled
white wand he carried, by his great silver chain, and his black velvet
coat and knee-breeches.

"Your lordship's room," says the seneschal (obviously an old and
confidential family servant), "is your old one--the Tapestried Chamber.
Her Grace is waiting anxiously for you."

Then two menials marched, with my Gladstone bag, to the apartment thus
indicated. For me, I felt in a dream, or like a man caught up into the
fairyland of the "Arabian Nights." "Her Grace" was all very well--the
aristocracy always admired my fictitious creations; but "Your Lordship!"
Why your Lordship? Then the chilling idea occurred to me that I had
_not_ been "the gentleman for the Towers;" that I was in the position of
the hero of "Happy Thoughts" when he went to the Duke's by mistake for
the humble home of the Plyte Frazers. But I was young. "Her Grace"
could not eat me, and I determined, as I said before, to see it out.

I dressed very deliberately, and that process over, was led by the worthy
seneschal into a singular octagonal boudoir, hung with soft dark blue
arras. The only person in the room was a gaunt, middle-aged lady, in
deep mourning. Though I knew no more of the British aristocracy than Mr.
W. D. Howells, of New York, I recognized her for the Duchess by her nose,
which resembled those worn by the duchesses of Mr. Du Maurier. As soon
as we were alone, she rose, drew me to her bosom, much to my horror,
looked at me long and earnestly, and at last exclaimed, "How changed you
are, Percy!" (My name is Thomas--Thomas Cobson.) Before I could reply,
she was pouring out reproaches on me for having concealed my existence,
and revealed in my novel what she spoke of as "the secret."

When she grew, not calm, but fatigued, I ventured to ask why she had
conferred on me the honour of her invitation, and how I had been
unfortunate enough to allude to affairs of which I had certainly no
knowledge. Her reply was given with stately dignity. "You need not
pretend," she said, "to have forgotten what I t