picture-shows, Julius?" asked the painter, Kew.

Courtney slowly abstracted his gaze from without, and turned on his shoulder with the lazy, languid grace of a cat.

"No," said he, in a half-absent tone; "I have just come up, and I've not thought of looking into picture-galleries yet."

"Been in the country?" asked Kew.

"Yes, I've been in the country," said Courtney, still as if his attention was elsewhere.

"It must be looking lovely," said Kew.

"It is—exquisite!" said Courtney, waking up at length to a full glow of interest. "That's why I don't want to go and stare at pictures. In the spring, to see the fresh, virginal, delicious green of a bush against an old dry brick wall, gives a keener pleasure than the best picture that ever was painted."

"I thought," said Kew, "you had a taste for Art; I thought you enjoyed it."

"So I do, my dear fellow, but not now,—not at this particular present. When I feel the warm sun on my back and breathe the soft air, I want no more; they are more than Art can give—they are Nature, and, of course, it goes without saying that Art can never compete with Nature in creating human pleasure. I mean no disparagement of your work, Kew, or any artist's work; but I can't endure Art except in winter, when everything (almost) must be artificial to be endurable. A winter may come in one's life—I wonder if it will?—when one would rather look at the picture of a woman than at the woman herself. Meantime I no more need pictures than I need fires; I warm both hands and heart at the fire of life."

"Ah!" said Kew, with a wistful lack of comprehension.

"That's why I believe," said Courtney, with a sudden turn of reflection, "there is in warm countries no Art of our small domestic kind."

"Just so," said Kew; while Dingley Dell, the Art critic, made a note of Courtney's words.

"Look here!" exclaimed Dr. Embro, an old scientific man of Scottish extraction, who, in impatience with such transcendental talk, had taken up 'The St. James's Gazette.' "What do you make of this queer case at the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris? I see it's taken from 'The Daily Telegraph;'" and he began to read it.

"Oh," said Kew, "we all read that this morning."

"Dr. Embro," said Courtney, again looking idly out of window, "is like a French journal: full of the news of the day before yesterday."

"Have you read it yourself, Julius?" asked Embro, amid the laughter of his neighbours.

"No," said Julius carelessly; "and if it's a hospital case I don't want to read it."

"What!" said Embro, with heavy irony. "You say that? You, a pupil of the great Dubois and the greater Charbon! But here comes a greater than Charbon—the celebrated Dr. Lefevre himself. Come now, Lefevre, you tell us what you think of this Paris hospital case."

"Presently, Embro," said Lefevre, who had just perceived his friend Courtney. "Ha, Julius!" said he, crossing to him and taking his hand; "you're looking uncommonly well."

"Yes," said Julius, "I am well."

"And where have you been all this while?" asked the doctor.

"Oh," said Julius, turning his gaze again out of window, "I have been rambling everywhere, between Dan and Beersheba."

"And all is vanity, eh?" said the doctor.

"Well," said Julius, looking at him, "that depends—that very much depends. But can there be any question of vanity or vexation in this sweet, glorious sunshine?" and he stretched out his hands as if he burgeoned forth to welcome it.

"Perhaps not," said Lefevre. "Come and sit down and let us talk."

They were retiring from the window when Embro's voice again sounded at Lefevre's elbow—"Come now, Lefevre; what's the meaning of that Paris case?"

"What Paris case?"

Embro answered by handing him the paper. He took it, and read as follows:—

"About a month ago a strange case of complete mental collapse was received into the Hôtel-Dieu. A fresh healthy girl, of the working class, about twenty years of age, and comfortably dressed, presented herself at a police-station near the Odéon and asked for shelter. As she did not appear to be in full possession of her mental faculties, she was sent to the Hôtel-Dieu, where she remained in a semi-comatose condition. Her memory did not go farther back than the hour of her application at the police-station. She was entirely ignorant of her previous history, and had even forgotten her name. The minds of the medical staff of the Hôtel-Dieu were very much exercised with her condition; but it was not till about a week ago that they succeeded in restoring to any extent her mental consciousness and her memory. She then remembered the events immediately preceding her application to the police. It had come on to rain, she said, and she was hurrying along to escape from it, when a gentleman in a cloak came to her side and politely offered to give her the shelter of his umbrella. She accepted; the gentleman seemed old and ill. He asked her to take his arm. She did so, and very soon she felt as if her strength had gone from her; a cold shiver crept over her; she trembled and tottered; but with all that she did not find her sensations disagreeable exactly or alarming; so little so, indeed, that she never thought of letting go the gentleman's arm. Her head buzzed, and a kind of darkness came over her. Then all seemed to clear, and she found herself alone near the police-station, remembering nothing. Being asked to further describe the gentleman, she said he was tall and dark, with a pleasant voice and wonderful eyes, that made you feel you must do whatever he wished. The police have made inquiries, but after such a lapse of time it is not surprising that no trace of him can be found."

"Well?" asked Embro, when Lefevre had raised his eyes from the paper. "What do you think of it?"

"Curious," said Lefevre. "I can't say more, since I know nothing of it but this. Have you read it, Julius?"

"No," said Julius; "I hate what people call news; and when I take up a paper, it's only to look at the Weather Forecasts." Lefevre handed him the paper, which he took with an unconcealed look of repulsion. "If it's some case of disease," said he, "it will make me ill."

"Oh no," said Lefevre; "it's not painful, but it's curious;" and so Julius set himself to read it.

"But come," said Embro, posing the question with his forefinger; "do you believe that story, Lefevre?"

"Though it's French, and from the 'Telegraph,'" said Lefevre, "I see no reason to disbelieve it."

"Come," said Embro, "come—you're shirking the question."

"I confess," said Lefevre, "I've no desire to discuss it. You think me prejudiced in favour of anything of the kind; perhaps I think you prejudiced against it: where, then, is the good of discussion?"

"Well, now," said the unabashed Embro, "I'll tell you what I think. Here's a story"—Julius at that instant handed back the paper to him—"of a healthy young woman mesmerised, hypnotised, or somnambulised, or whatever you like to call it, in the public street, by some man that casually comes up to her, and her brain so affected that her memory goes! I say it's inconceivable!—impossible!" And he slapped the paper down on the table.

The others looked on with grim satisfaction at the prospect of an argument between the two representatives of rival schools; and it was noteworthy that, as they looked, they turned a referring glance on Courtney, as if it were a foregone conclusion that he must be the final arbiter. He, however, sat abstracted, with his eyes on the floor, and with one hand propping his chin and the other drumming on the arm of his chair.

"I'm not a scientific man," said the journalist who was not an Art critic, "and I am not prejudiced either way about this story; but it seems to me, Embro, that you