"Don't mind my saying all this to your face."

"I suppose her history is a very interesting one."

"Her history, my worthy Harcourt! She has a dozen histories. Such women
have a life of politics, a life of literature, a life of the _salons_,
a life of the affections, not to speak of the episodes of jealousy,
ambition, triumph, and sometimes defeat, that make up the brilliant
web of their existence. Some three or four such people give the whole
character and tone to the age they live in. They mould its interests,
sway its fashions, suggest its tastes, and they finally rule those who
fancy that they rule mankind."

"Egad, then, it makes one very sorry for poor mankind," muttered
Harcourt, with a most honest sincerity of voice.

"Why should it do so, my good Harcourt? Is the refinement of a woman's
intellect a worse guide than the coarser instincts of a man's nature?
Would you not yourself rather trust your destinies to the fair creature
yonder than be left to the legislative mercies of that old gentleman
there, Hardenberg, or his fellow on the other side, Metternich?"

"Grim-looking fellow the Prussian; the other is much better," said
Harcourt, rather evading the question.

"I confess I prefer the Princess," said Upton, as he bowed before the
portrait in deepest courtesy. "But here comes breakfast. I have ordered
them to give it to us here, that we may enjoy that glorious sea view
while we eat."

"I thought your cook a man of genius, Upton, but this fellow is his
master," said Harcourt, as he tasted his soup.

"They are brothers,--twins, too; and they have their separate gifts,"
said Upton, affectedly. "My fellow, they tell me, has the finer
intelligence; but he plays deeply, speculates on the Bourse, and it
spoils his nerve."

Harcourt watched the delivery of this speech to catch if there were
any signs of raillery in the speaker; he felt that there was a kind of
mockery in the words; but there was none in the manner, for there was
not any in the mind of him who uttered them.

"My _chef_," resumed Upton, "is a great essayist, who must have time for
his efforts. This fellow is a _feuilleton_ writer, who is required to
be new and sparkling every day of the year,--always varied, never
profound."

"And is this your life of every day?" said Harcourt, as he surveyed the
splendid room, and carried his glance towards the terraced gardens that
flanked the sea.

"Pretty much this kind of thing," sighed Upton, wearil