To divine, more or less, what the plot may have been,
And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene.

And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile,

With its pensive and passionless languor, I feel

That some feeling hath burnt there... burnt out, and burnt up
Health and hope. So you feel when you gaze down the cup
Of extinguish'd volcanoes: you judge of the fire

Once there, by the ravage you see;-the desire,
By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense
Of a moral, immoveable, mute impotence.

ALFRED.

Humph! . . I see you have finish'd, at last, your cigar :
Can I offer another?

On their converse. Still musingly on, side by side,

In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride

Down the dim mountain pathway. But each, for the rest

Of their journey, although they still rode on abreast,

Continued to follow in silence the train

Of the different feelings that haunted his brain;
And each, as though roused from a deep reverie,
Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see
Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths,
The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths,

With the lamps twinkling through them-the quaint wooden

roofs

The little white houses.

The clatter of hoofs,

And the music of wandering bands, up the walls

Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals

Reach'd them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking of whips And here and there, faintly, through serpentine slips

Of verdant rose-gardens, deep-shelter'd with screens

Of airy acacias and dark evergreens,

They could mark the white dresses, and catch the light songs,
Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs,

Led by Laughter and Love through the cold eventide
Down the dream-haunted valley, or up the hill-side.

XVII.

At length, at the door of the inn l'HERISSON, (Pray go there, if ever you go to Serchon!)

The two horsemen, well pleased to have reach'd it, alighted And exchanged their last greetings.

The Frenchman invited

Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined.

He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined.
In his own rooms that night.

With an unquiet eye
He watch'd his companion depart; nor knew why,
Beyond all accountable reason or measure,
He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure.
'The fellow's good-looking,' he murmur'd at last,
'And yet not a coxcomb.' Some ghost of the past
Vex'd him still.

'If he love her,' he thought, 'let him win her.' Then he turn'd to the future-and order'd his dinner.

F

34

XVIII.

O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth,
Blessed hour of our dinners!

The land of his birth;

The face of his first love; the bills that he owes;
The twaddle of friends, and the venom of foes;
The sermon he heard when to church he last went;
The money he borrow'd, the money he spent ;-
All of these things a man, I believe, may forget,
And not be the worse for forgetting; but yet
Never, never, oh never! earth's luckiest sinner
Hath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner!
Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach,
Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache
Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease,
As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes.

XIX.

We may live without poetry, music, and art;

We may live without conscience, and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without cooks.

He may live without books,-what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope,-what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love,-what is passion but pining?
But where is the man that can live without dining?

XX.

Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note

From Lucile.

'Your last letter has reach'd me,' she wrote.

'This evening, alas! I must go to the ball,

And shall not be at home till too late for

'But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One
'You will find me at home, and will find me alone.

'Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord, 'For the honour with which you adhere to your word. 'Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred! To-morrow, then.

'L.'

XXI.

I find myself terribly puzzled to tell

The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung down
This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own
That I think he, himself, could have hardly explain'd
Those feelings exactly.

'Yes, yes,' as he drain'd

The glass down, he mutter'd, 'Jack's right, after all

'You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go.'

XXII.

Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs,

When season'd by love, which no rancour disturbs,
And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life,
Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife!
But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone,

A man should sit down to a dinner, each one
Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil
With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil,
The chances are ten against one, I must own,
He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down.
And if any reader this fact to dispute is

Disposed, I say

'Nocentius!'

'Allium edat cicutis

Over the fruit and the wine

Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine.
Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set,

And languidly lighted his small cigarette.

The window was open. The warm air without

Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were about.
In the gloom he sat gloomy.

XXIII.

Gay sounds from below

Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago,

And night deepen'd apace; through the dark avenues
The lamps twinkled bright; and by threes, and by twos,
The idlers of Serchon were strolling at will,

As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window-sill,
Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er
His late travelling companion, now passing before
The inn, at the window of which he still sat,
In full toilette,-boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat,
Gaily smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove,
As he turn'd down the avenue.

Watching above,

From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he walk'd
To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now talk'd,
To the young Paris dandies, Lord Alfred discern'd,

By the way hats were lifted, and glances were turn'd,
That this unknown acquaintance, now bound for the ball,
Was a person of rank or of fashion; for all

Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopp'd with and chatter'd,
Walk'd on with a look which implied . . . . 'I feel flatter'd !'

XXIV.

His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom.

XXV.

Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room.

He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen

Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin :
He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile :

He had thought about many things: thought a great deal