and should not be disturbed by anybody.

In answer to all this I said that I had no habits whatever; that I was able to eat, drink, and sleep at will; was never fatigued, and would with pleasure put in my appearance at his breakfast-table that very morning.

"That will be nice, indeed!" he said. "But I must beg your pardon in advance for my wife. On ordinary days she is up and presides at breakfast; but to-day she bade me apologise. She has been up all night from excitement, and now I have told her to lie down and rest a few hours. After that she usually spends some time in the nursery, superintending the children's ablutions, prayers, and breakfast, and only when all these matters are accomplished is she ready for her duties as hostess and mistress of the household."

"So little James is not your only child?" I ventured to ask.

"Not by many; we have two more boys and two beautiful little girls—quite a houseful."

"But the lady looks almost too young to be the mother of so many children. Little James is the eldest, of course?"

"Yes, he is her first-born, and she is not yet twenty-four. We have been married six years, so christening has been an annual event with us."

Well, I was more puzzled than ever. I had met with a good many English and American gentlemen before, but all had been rather reserved in speech and manner, quite different from this Croesus; and, regarding the lady, I was altogether at a loss, as all my conjectures were entirely at fault. She was not without feeling; she was apparently a good mother, and little James was her own child and not a stepson, as I had guessed. Her behaviour at the station was still an enigma to me.

At last we arrived at the Silver King's residence—a large, well-built, and rather comfortable than brilliant mansion, filled with a host of servants, of whom each knew and fulfilled his particular duty. A valet de chambre showed me into a very splendid and comfortable suite of rooms, consisting of a reception-room, sitting-room, work-room, bed-, dressing-, and bathroom, all furnished in the choicest and most practical way, and I was delighted to see that, although all was rich and costly, none of the offensive and pretentious pomp of the ordinary millionaire's house met my eye.

The valet, an Alsacian, who talked to me in German—perhaps with the notion of paying me a compliment—informed me that he was entirely at my own service. He showed me a beautiful escritoire in the work-room, with everything ready for writing purposes, and told me that, in the reading-room attached, I should find an assortment of newspapers. He then quickly and skilfully prepared me a bath, unpacked and arranged my things, and helped me to dress. He was altogether a wonderfully nice fellow.

When the valet left me, I went into the reading-room, and looked at the newspapers. I found quite a number of them—French, English, Italian, and one German; but still I was a little disappointed. I had half expected to find a Hungarian paper, and there was none.

The library contained a choice collection of books; works of science, philosophy, history, poetry, and fiction—of the latter, only a small and select number. Here also was no Hungarian author to be found; not even the translation of a Hungarian book could I detect, although I looked into every one—French, German, English, and Italian, and even some Spanish and Danish ones.

From the reading-room opened the billiard-room, a handsome apartment. Its walls were covered with beautiful frescoes, betraying the French school of art in the delicate colours, and in the Norman, Basque, Breton, and Kabyle scenes and types represented. Of Hungary I could see nothing. The Hortobágy herdsman's hovel, of which my host had spoken, was not to be found.

In another room I found a sort of ethnographical museum, full of relics and rarities from all countries except Hungary; and yet, if that man had ever been in my country, he would certainly have brought some token of remembrance with him. Hungary is more rich in curiosities than a good many of the countries represented here.

Mr. Dumany came in to see if I was ready for breakfast, and I followed him into the tea-room, passing a little, semi-circular, ship-cabin-like apartment, with small, round windows, between which, in beautifully-sculptured, round frames, of the size of the windows, hung very handsome landscapes, apparently American.

In the breakfast-room I recognised a tiny Meissonier, in a gold frame of twice its size, and an Alma Tadema. Mr. Dumany, observing my interest in the pictures, informed me that these two were there only temporarily, pending their shipment to New York. There, in Mr. Dumany's real home, was his picture gallery, containing works of art of the highest standard.

I ventured to observe that we Scythians, barbarians as we were held to be, had also some painters worthy the interest of a Mæcenas, and not without fame, too.

"I should think so," he said, smiling. "And in my New York gallery you will find Munkácsy genres, Zichy aquarelles, a Benczur, and some other equally fine Hungarian pictures. Here I keep only French and German pictures of lesser value."

Our conversation turned to art in general, and Mr. Dumany surprised me again by an allusion to the Hungarian witticism that when we speak of Hungarian art we cannot omit Liszt (for the name of the great musician is also the Hungarian word for flour); and Mr. Dumany remarked that Americans travelling abroad have learned to appreciate both the Hungarian specialties. The great artist, and the product of the soil and mill converted into fine cake, are equally esteemed by them.

We talked about commerce and exports, and he observed that although American wheat was sure to inundate the European market, yet Hungarian flour was unrivalled in quality, and would increase in consumption throughout the world. Then we spoke of financial matters, and here Mr. Dumany was completely at home. The Hungarian rente had at that time just been introduced into the market, and Mr. Dumany predicted for it a fair success. He prophesied the rente conversion scheme and the four per cent. bonds, and from this topic we diverged to politics. He was a very fair politician, and I was pleasantly impressed by the apparent interest which he took in Hungary. He admired Andrássy, and spoke well of his Bosnian policy. Of Tisza he entertained great hopes, and he felt sorry for Apponyi, because he had allied his great talents with the Opposition. He spoke of Kossuth, and said it was a pity to see the grand old man's name misused by the extreme faction. I tried to turn the conversation to Hungarian literature, but on this point I met with but little interest. Still, I noticed that he knew more about us than foreigners in general do. He did not think the Gypsies the ruling race in Hungary, and he did not believe us to be a sort of chivalrous brigands, as some foreigners consider us; but he did not show any particular sympathy with either the country or the people, and certainly used no flattery on the subject of our special virtues.

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Dumany's valet, who handed his master two letters. "Will you give me leave to read them at once?" he asked, turning to me. "They are of some importance, being answers to two dinner invitations I sent out this morning."