for winning people's confidence, in your code of moral economy, is it not?"
"Madame is becoming a logician; her argument by induction does her credit."
"But, your business, monsieur?"
"Was to signify my wish, madame, that we should be seen oftener together in public. The Italian Opera, now, madame, though you have so great a distaste for it—a distaste which, by-the-bye, you did not possess during the early period of your life—is a very popular resort. All the world will be there to-night, to witness the début of a singer of continental celebrity. Perhaps you will do me the honour to accompany me there?"
"I do not take any interest, monsieur"
"In the fortunes of tenor singers. Ah, how completely we outlive the foolish fancies of our youth! But you will occupy the box on the grand tier of her Majesty's Theatre, which I have taken for the season. It is to your son's—to Cherubino's interest, for you to comply with my request." He glances towards the boy once more, with a sneer on his thin lips, and then turns and bows to Valerie, as he says—
"Au revoir, madame. I shall order the carriage for eight o'clock."
A horse, which at a sale at Tattersall's had attracted the attention of all the votaries of the Corner, for the perfection of his points and the enormous price which he realized, caracoles before the door, under the skilful horsemanship of a well-trained and exquisitely-appointed groom. Another horse, equally high-bred, waits for his rider, the Count de Marolles. The groom dismounts, and holds the bridle, as the gentleman emerges from the door and springs into the saddle. A consummate horseman the Count de Marolle; a handsome man too, in spite of the restless and shifting blue eyes and the thin nervous lips. His dress is perfect, just keeping pace with the fashion sufficiently to denote high ton in the wearer, without outstripping it, so as to stamp him a parvenu. It has that elegant and studious grace which, to a casual observer, looks like carelessness, but which is in reality the perfection of the highest art of all—the art of concealing art.
It is only twelve o'clock, and there are not many people of any standing in Piccadilly this September morning; but of the few gentlemen on horseback who pass Monsieur de Marolles, the most aristocratic-looking bow to him. He is well known in the great world as the eminent banker, the owner of a superb house in Park Lane. He possesses a man cook of Parisian renown, who wears the cross of the Legion of Honour, given him by the first Napoleon on the occasion of a dinner at Talleyrand's. He has estates in South America and in France; a fortune, said to
