miniatures. But Shakespeare, by a
miniature in words, has given us an exquisite conception of what a
miniature in art should be--at least when it is "Fair Portia's
counterfeit."

"... Here in her hair
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes--
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnished."

But Bassanio was not an art critic--merely a lover! The miniaturist,
however, who can weave on ivory "a golden mesh to entrap the hearts of
men" may surely find content.

[Illustration: THE LATE LORD COLERIDGE. _By Maud Coleridge._]

[Illustration: HIS LORDSHIP & MISS O'CALLAGHAN]

A COMEDY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

_Illustrated by Edmund J. Sullivan._

After my engagement to Lucy Vivian I took to working very hard--a man
always does that or nothing at all--and the work suited me better than
the idleness. I suppose we had been engaged five months, and I was
beginning to grow accustomed to it, when one afternoon the amiable peer
who had been of such service to me in the affair strolled into my
studio. Directly I set eyes on him I knew he had something in the wind,
his manner was so absolutely uninterested.

He nodded to me without speaking, crossed over to the fire (it was
bitterly cold outside), and stood with his back to it. Then he pulled
off his gloves slowly and invited me to come and shake hands.

"You lazy beggar!" I said; "you come here! Can't you see I'm working?"

"Working! you're always working. What's come over you?"

"You forget----"

"Oh, it's Lucy, is it?" he asked. "Well, well! she's a dear child, Phil,
I admit."

"Lord St. Alleyne," I said, "you never spoke a truer word."

"Why will you always be throwing that confounded title in my face? I'm
only an Irish peer; that title has been a great drawback to me."

"How?" I asked.

"It makes people take twice as long as they should to find out I'm a
decent chap."

"It didn't take me long," I said.

"You're different, Phil; it's the women it troubles."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, what do you want?" I asked.

"A cigar," he said.

"You know where they are, don't you?" I replied.

He went to my cigar cabinet and selected one thoughtfully. Then he lit
it and drew his favourite armchair up to the hearth. His profile was
towards me, and I remarked