The Lady Paramount. Harland Henry

is cold—that's merely because, despite the season, we 're having a spell of warmish weather, and we 've let the fires go out. 'T is June. Town 's full; country 's depopulated. In Piccadilly, I gather from the public prints, vehicular traffic is painfully congested. Meanwhile, I 've a grand piece of news for your private ear. Guess a wee bit what it is."

      "Oh, I 'm no good at guessing," said Anthony, with languor, as they resumed their walk.

      "Well—what will you give me, then, if I 'll blurt it out?" asked

       Adrian, shuffling along sidewise, so that he might face his companion.

      "My undivided attention—provided you blurt it briefly," Anthony promised.

      "Oh, come," Adrian urged, swaying his head and shoulders. "Betray a little curiosity, at least."

      "Curiosity is a vice I was taught in my youth to suppress," said

       Anthony.

      "A murrain on your youth," cried Adrian, testily. "However, since there 's no quieting you otherwise, I suppose, for the sake of peace, I 'd best tell you, and have done with it. Well, then,"—he stood off, to watch the effect of his announcement—"Craford's Folly is let."

      "Ah?" said Anthony, with no sign of emotion.

      Adrian's face fell.

      "Was there ever such inhumanity?" he mourned. "I tell him that—thanks to my supernatural diligence in his affairs—his own particular millstone is lifted from his neck. I tell him that a great white elephant of a house, which for years has been eating its head off, and keeping him poor, is at last—by my supernatural diligence—converted into an actual source of revenue. And 'Ah?' is all he says, as if it did n't concern him. Blow, blow, thou winter wind—thou art not so unkind as Man's ingratitude."

      "Silence," Anthony mentioned, "is the perfectest herald of joy."

      "Pish, tush," said Adrian. "A fico for the phrase. I 'll bet a shilling, all the same,"—and he scanned Anthony's countenance apprehensively—"that you 'll be wanting money?"

      "It's considered rather low," Anthony generalised, "to offer a bet on what you have every ground for regarding as a certainty."

      "A certainty?" groaned Adrian. He tossed his plump arms heavenwards.

       "There it is! He 's wanting money."

      And his voice broke, in something like a sob.

      "Do you know," he asked, "how many pounds sterling you 've had the spending of during the past twelvemonth? Do you know how many times your poor long-suffering bankers have written to me, with tears in their eyes, to complain that your account was overdrawn, and would I be such a dear as to set it right? No? You don't? I could have sworn you did n't. Well, I do—to my consternation. And it is my duty to caution you that the estate won't stand it—to call that an estate," he divagated, with a kind of despairing sniff, "which is already, by the extravagances of your ancestors, shrunken to scarcely more than three acres and a cow. You 're wanting money? What do you do with your money? What secret profligacy must a man be guilty of, who squanders such stacks of money? Burst me, if I might n't as well be steward to a bottomless pit. However, Providence be praised—and my own supernatural diligence—I 'm in command of quite unhoped-for resources. Craford New Manor is let."

      "So you remarked before," said Anthony, all but yawning.

      "And shall again, if the impulse seizes me," Adrian tartly rejoined. "The circumstance is a relevant and a lucky one for the man you 're fondest of, since he's wanting money. If it were n't that the new house is let, he 'd find my pockets in the condition of Lord Tumtoddy's noddle. However, the saints are merciful, I 'm a highly efficient agent, and the biggest, ugliest, costliest house in all this countryside is let."

      "Have it so, dear Goldilocks," said Anthony, with submission. "I 'll ne'er deny it more."

      "There would be no indiscretion," Adrian threw out, "in your asking whom it's let to."

      "Needless to ask," Anthony threw back. "It's let to a duffer, of course. None but a duffer would be duffer enough to take it."

      "Well, then, you 're quite mistaken," said Adrian, airily swaggering.

       "It's let to a lady."

      "Oh, there be lady duffers," Anthony apprised him.

      "It's very ungallant of you to say so." Adrian frowned disapprobation. "This lady, if you can bear to hear the whole improbable truth at once, is an Italian lady."

      "An Italian lady? Oh?" Anthony's interest appeared to wake a little.

      Adrian laughed.

      "I expected that would rouse you. A Madame Torrebianca."

      "Ah?" said Anthony; and his interest appeared to drop.

      "Yes—la Nobil Donna Susanna Torrebianca. Is n't that a romantic name? A lady like the heroine of some splendid old Italian story—like Pompilia, like Francesca—like Kate the Queen, when her maiden was binding her tresses. Young, and dark, and beautiful, and altogether charming."

      "H'm. And not a duffer? An adventuress, then, clearly," said Anthony.

       "You 'll never get the rent."

      "Nothing of the sort," Adrian asserted, with emphasis. "A lady of the highest possible respectability. Trust me to know. A scrupulous Catholic, besides. It was partly because we have a chapel that she decided to take the house. Father David is hand and glove with her. And rich. She gave the very best of banker's references. 'Get the rent,' says he—as if I had n't got my quarter in advance. I let furnished—what? Well, that's the custom—rent payable quarterly in advance. And cultivated. She's read everything, and she prattles English like you or me. She had English governesses when she was a kiddie. And appreciative. She thinks I 'm without exception the nicest man she 's ever met. She adores my singing, and delights in all the brilliant things I say. She says things that are n't half bad herself, and plays my accompaniments with really a great deal of sympathy and insight. And Tony dear,"—he laid his hand impressively on Tony's arm, while his voice sank to the pitch of deep emotion—"she has a cook—a cook—ah, me!"

      He smacked his lips, as at an unutterable recollection.

      "She brought him with her from Italy. He has a method of preparing sweetbreads—well, you wait. His name is Serafino—and no wonder. And she has the nicest person who was ever born to live with her: a Miss Sandus, Miss Ruth Sandus, a daughter of the late Admiral Sir Geoffrey Sandus. She 's a dove, she 's a duck, she 's a darling; she 's completely won my heart. And I"—he took a few skipping steps, and broke suddenly into song—

      "'And I, and I have hers!'

      We dote upon each other. She calls me her Troubadour. She has the prettiest hands of any woman out of Paradise. She 's as sweet as remembered kisses after death. She 's as sharp as a needle. She 's as bright as morning roses lightly tipped with dew. She has a house of her own in Kensington. And she's seventy-four years of age."

      Anthony's interest appeared to wake again.

      "Seventy-four? You call that young?" he asked, with the inflection of one who was open to be convinced.

      Adrian bridled.

      "You deliberately put a false construction on my words. I was alluding to Miss Sandus, as you 're perfectly well aware. Madame Torrebianca is n't seventy-four, nor anything near it. She's not twenty-four. Say about twenty-five and a fraction. With such hair too—and such frocks—and eyes. Oh, my dear!" He kissed his fingers, and wafted the kiss to the sky. "Eyes! Imagine twin moons rising over a tropical—"

      "Allons donc," Anthony repressed him. "Contain yourself. Where is Madame Torrebianca's husband?"

      "Ah," said Adrian, with a sudden lapse of tone. "Where is Madame Torrebianca's husband? That's the question. Where?" And he winked suggestively. "How can I tell you where he is? If I could tell you that, you don't suppose I 'd be wearing myself to a shadow with uncongenial and ill-remunerated labour, in an