oss a bridge if it won't drink? Here goes--heads,
a European war; tails, another thousand years of peace.--Ah, tough
luck, Fensome, old son; it's tails.'

'Then let's begin the thousand years with some tennis,' cried Elise,
whose eyes were sparkling, 'immediately after breakfast.'

'Shall us? Let's,' cried the talkative Maynard. 'So lay on,
comrades--the victuals are waiting--and "damned be he that first cries,
'Hold, enough!"'

III.

With an animated burst of chatter the house-party had given itself over
to a thorough enjoyment of the remainder of breakfast. Ultimatums and
the alarums of war vanished into thin air, like mists dispelled by the
sun. The serious face of the ex-officer and the unwonted air of
distraction on Lord Durwent's countenance were the only indications
that the morning was different from any other. Tongues and hearts were
light, and airy bubbles of badinage were blown into space for the
delectation of all who cared to look.

It was during a fashionable monologue of the Court-Circular lady that
Maynard, the man of moods, who was sitting next to Selwyn, leaned over
and whispered, 'Get hold of the _Sketch_. It's on your right. Pretend
you're looking at the pictures. I've got the _Mirror_.'

Wondering what asinine prank was in the young man's mind, but not
wanting to disturb the monologuist by untimely controversy, Selwyn
reached for the _Sketch_, and assumed a deep interest in the very
latest picture of London's very latest stage favourite who could
neither sing, dance, nor act, and was tremendously popular.

'Excuse me, Lady Durwent,' said the gilded youth when a lull permitted
him to speak, 'but would you pass the _Daily Mail_, please?'

'My dear Horace,' said Elise, 'you haven't taken to reading the _Mail_?'

'No, dear one. Heaven forbid! I merely write for it.'

'What!' There was an _ensemble_ of astonishment.

'Ra-ther. I sent their contributed page a scholarly little thing from
my pen entitled "Should One Kiss in the Park?" If it's in I get three
guineas, and I'm going to start for Fiji to escape old Fensome's war.'

'Mr. Selwyn,' said Lady Durwent, passing the journal along, 'you have a
rival.'

With an air of considerable embarrassment the fair-haired contributor
to newspapers opened the pages of the _Daily Mail_, but protesting that
he was too bashful to endure the gaze of the curious, he begged
permission to retire to the library, there to search in privacy for