s we wish no bitterer fate than not to live in his splendid
creations. A spacious centre, richly ornamented, though broken, perhaps,
into rather too much detail, was joined to wings of a corresponding
magnificence by fanciful colonnades. A terrace, extending the whole
front, was covered with orange trees, and many a statue, and many an
obelisk, and many a temple, and many a fountain, were tinted with
the warm twilight. The Duke did not view the forgotten scene of youth
without emotion. It was a palace worthy of the heroine on whom he had
been musing. The carriage gained the lofty portal. Luigi and Spiridion,
who had preceded their master, were ready to receive the Duke, who was
immediately ushered to the rooms prepared for his reception. He was
later than he had intended, and no time was to be unnecessarily lost in
his preparation for his appearance.

His Grace's toilet was already prepared: the magical dressing-box
had been unpacked, and the shrine for his devotions was covered
with richly-cut bottles of all sizes, arranged in all the elegant
combinations which the picturesque fancy of his valet could devise,
adroitly intermixed with the golden instruments, the china vases, and
the ivory and rosewood brushes, which were worthy even of Delcroix's
exquisite inventions.

The Duke of St. James was master of the art of dress, and consequently
consummated that paramount operation with the decisive rapidity of one
whose principles are settled. He was cognisant of all effects, could
calculate in a second all consequences, and obtained his result with
that promptitude and precision which stamp the great artist. For a
moment he was plunged in profound abstraction, and at the same time
stretched his legs after his drive. He then gave his orders with the
decision of Wellington on the arrival of the Prussians, and the battle
began.

His Grace had a taste for magnificence in costume; but he was handsome,
young, and a duke. Pardon him. Yet to-day he was, on the whole, simple.
Confident in a complexion whose pellucid lustre had not yielded to a
season of dissipation, his Grace did not dread the want of relief which
a white face, a white cravat, and a white waistcoat would seem to imply.

A hair chain set in diamonds, worn in memory of the absent Aphrodite,
and to pique the present Dacre, is annexed to a glass, which reposes
in the waistcoat pocket. This was the only weight that the Duke of St.
James ever carried. It was a bore, bu