the mother-of-pearl inkstand, prepared to begin.
"I have only three affairs," continued Kingston,"on my hands at present, of sufficient importance to warrant my committing pen, ink, and paper, which always appears to me an expedient to be reserved for the last extremity of une grande passion. To one only of these do I propose drawing your attention this morning."
He opened an embroidered portfolio; and, from its perfumed depths, took out a letter, which he began to read aloud. Involuntarily, Walter became interested; there was an earnest sadness, and a poetry about it, which spoke no common writer.
"You see," said Sir George, throwing it down on the table for Walter to see if he liked it, though it never even entered into Maynard's head to look at it, "there is scope for your genius. She is romantic—clever—needs excitement; and, therefore, flavours her affection with a handsome seasoning of remorse. I shall expect a master-piece from you to-night;
