smell. May I have one?"

"Sir," said Brimberly, his whiskers slightly agitated, "cigars, sir?"

"In the cabinet, I think," and Mr. Ravenslee motioned feebly with one white hand towards the tall, carved cabinet in an adjacent corner.

Mr. Brimberly coughed softly behind plump fingers.

"The—the key, sir?" he suggested.

"Oh, not at all necessary, Brimberly; the lock is faulty, you know."

"Sir?" said Brimberly, soothing a twitching whisker.

"If you are familiar with the life of the Fourteenth Louis, Brimberly, you will remember that the Grand Monarch hated to be kept waiting—so do I. A cigar—in the cabinet yonder."

With his whiskers in a high state of agitation, Mr. Brimberly laid by the garments he held clutched in one arm and coming to the cabinet, opened it, and taking thence a box of cigars, very much at random, came back, carrying it rather as though it were a box of highly dangerous explosives, and setting it at his master's elbow, struck a match.

As Mr. Brimberly watched his master select and light his cigar, it chanced that Young R. raised his eyes and looked at him, and to be sure those eyes were surprisingly piercing and quick for one so very languid. Indeed, Mr. Brimberly seemed to think so, for he coughed again, faint and discreetly, behind his hand, while his whiskers quivered slightly, though perceptibly.

"You're 'ome quite—quite unexpected, sir!"

"Brimberly, I'm afraid I am, but I hope I don't intrude?"

"Intrude, sir!" repeated Mr. Brimberly. "Oh, very facetious, sir, very facetious indeed!" and he laughed, deferentially and soft.

"I blew the horn, but I see he left his hat behind him!" sighed Young R., nodding languidly toward the headgear of Mr. Stevens, which had fallen beneath a chair and thus escaped notice.

"Why, I—indeed, sir," said Mr. Brimberly, stooping to make a fierce clutch at it, "I took the liberty of showing a friend of mine your—your picters, sir—no offence, I 'ope, sir?"

"Friend?" murmured his master.

"Name of Stevens, sir, valet to Lord Barberton—a most sooperior person indeed, sir!"

"Barberton? I don't agree with you, Brimberly."

"Stevens, sir!"

"Ah! And you showed him my—pictures, did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did take that liberty—no offence, sir, I—"

"Hum! Did he like 'em?"

"Like them, sir! 'E were fair overpowered, sir! Brandy and soda, sir?"

"Thanks! Did he like that, too?"

"Why, sir—I—indeed—"

"Oh, never mind—to-night is an occasion, anyway—just a splash of soda! Yes, Brimberly, when the clocks strike midnight I shall be thirty-five years old—"

"Indeed, sir!" exclaimed Brimberly, clasping his plump hands softly and bowing, "then allow me to wish you many, many 'appy returns, sir, with continued 'ealth, wealth, and all 'appiness, sir!"

"Happiness?" repeated Young R., and smiled quite bitterly, as only the truly young can smile. "Happiness!" said he again, "thank you, Brimberly—now take your friend his hat, and have the extreme goodness to make up the fire for me. I love a fire, as you know, but especially when I am mournful. And pray—hurry, Brimberly!"

Forthwith Mr. Brimberly bowed and bustled out, but very soon bustled in again; and now, as he stooped, menial-like, to ply the coal tongs, though his domelike brow preserved all its wonted serenity, no words could possibly express all the mute rebellion of those eloquent whiskers.

"Hanything more, sir?" he enquired, as he rose from his knees.

"Why, yes," said Young R., glancing up at him, and beneath the quizzical look in those sleepy grey eyes, Mr. Brimberly's whiskers wilted slightly. "You're getting a trifle too—er—portly to hop round on your knees, aren't you, Brimberly? Pray sit down and talk to me."

Mr. Brimberly bowed and took a chair, sitting very upright and attentive while his master frowned into the fire.

"Thirty-five is a ripe age, Brimberly!" said he at last; "a man should have made something of his life—at thirty-five!"

"Certingly, sir!"

"And I'm getting quite into the sere and yellow leaf, am I not, Brimberly?"

Mr. Brimberly raised a plump, protesting hand.

"'Ardly that, sir, 'ardly that!" said he, "we are hall of us getting on, of course—"

"Where to, Brimberly? On where, Brimberly—on what?"

"Why, sir, since you ask me, I should answer—begging your parding—'eavens knows, sir!"

"Precisely! Anyway, I'm going there fast."

"Where, sir?"

"Heaven knows, Brimberly."

"Ah—er—certingly, sir!"

"Now, Brimberly, as a hard-headed, matter-of-fact, common-sense being, what would you suggest for a poor devil who is sick and tired of everything and most of all—of himself?"

"Why, sir, I should prescribe for that man change of hair, sir—travel, sir. I should suggest to that man Hafghanistan or Hasia Minor, or both, sir. There's your noo yacht a-laying in the river, sir—"

His master leant his square chin upon his square fist and still frowning at the fire, gently shook his head.

"My good Brimberly," he sighed, "haven't I travelled in most parts of the world?"

"Why, yes, sir, you've travelled, sir, very much so indeed, sir—you've shot lions and tigers and a helephant or so, and exchanged sentiments with raging 'eathen—as rage in nothing but a string o' beads—but what about your noomerous possessions in Europe, sir?"

"Ah, yes," nodded Young R., "I do possess some shanties and things over there, don't I, Brimberly?"

"Shanties, sir!" Mr. Brimberly blinked, and his whiskers bristled in horrified reproof. "Shanties!—Oh, dear me, sir!" he murmured. "Shanties—your magnificent town mansion situate in Saint James's Square, London, as your respected father hacquired from a royal dook, sir! Shanties!—your costly and helegant res-eye-dence in Park Lane, sir!"

"Hum!" said Young R. moodily.

"Then, in Scotland, sir, we 'ave your castle of Drumlochie, sir—rocks, turrets, battlements, 'ighly grim and romantic, sir!"

"Ha!" sighed his young master, frowning at his cigar.

"Next, sir,—in Italy we find your ancient Roman villa, sir—halabaster pillows and columns, sir—very historical though a trifle wore with wars and centuries of centoorians, sir, wherefore I would humbly suggest a coat or two of paint, sir, applied beneath your very own eye, sir—"

"No, Brimberly," murmured Young R., "paint might have attractions—Italy, none!"

"Certingly not, sir, cer-tingly not! Which brings us to your schloss in Germany, sir—"

"Nor Germany! Lord, Brimberly, are there many more?"

"Ho, yes, sir, plenty!" nodded Mr, Brimberly, "your late honoured and respected father, sir, were a rare 'and at buying palaces, sir; 'e collected 'em, as you might say, like some folks collects postage starmps, sir!"

"And a collection of the one is about as useless as a collection of the other, Brimberly!"

"Why, true, sir, one man can't live in a dozen places all at once, but why not work round 'em in turn, beginning, say, at your imposing Venetian palazzo—canals, sir, gondoleers—picturesque though dampish? Or your shally in the Tyro-leen Halps, sir, or—"

"Brimberly, have the goodness to—er—shut up!"

"Certingly, sir."

"To-day is my birthday, Brimberly, and to-night I've reached a kind of 'jumping off' place in my life, and—between you and me—I'm seriously thinking of—er—jumping off!"

"I crave parding, sir?"

"I'm thirty-five years old," continued Young R., his frown growing blacker, "and I've never done anything really worth while in all my useless life! Have the goodness to look at me, will you?"

"With pleasure, sir!"

"Well, what do I look like?"

"The very hacme of a gentleman, sir!"

"Kind of you, Brimberly, but I know myself for an absolutely useless thing—a purposeless, ambitionless wretch, drifting on to God knows what. I'm a hopeless wreck, a moral