ed at either Barndale or Leland, but chatted
with his friends in a free and unembarrassed way which extorted the
admiration of the two Englishmen, who were both somewhat silent and
uncomfortable. But in Lilian's society it was not possible for Barndale
to be gravely thoughtful just now. The business of the day was a trip to
the Sweet Waters of Europe. Jimmy, who had been caught by that charming
title on a former visit, proclaimed the show a swindle, and the Sweet
Waters a dreary and dirty canal; but Lilian and her mother must needs go
and see what everybody else went to see; and so an open vehicle having
with infinitude of trouble been procured, and George Stamos, best
of dragomans and staunchest of campaigning comrades, being engaged,
Barndale and Leland mounted and rode behind the carriage. Papa Leland,
in white serge and a big straw hat with a bigger puggaree on it, winked
benevolent in the dazzling sunlight.' The party crawled along the Grande
Rue, and once off its execrable pavement took the road at a moderately
good pace, saw the sights, enjoyed the drive, and started for home
again, very much disappointed with the Sweet Waters, and but poorly
impressed with the environs of Constantinople on the whole. On the
return journey an accident happened which sent grief to Barn-dale's
soul.

Five or six years ago, wandering aimlessly in Venice, Barndale had an
adventure. He met a sculptor, a young Italian, by name Antoletti, a
man of astonishing and daring genius. This man was engaged on a work
of exquisite proportions--'Madeline and Porphyro' he called it. He had
denied himself the very necessaries of life, as genius will, to buy
his marble and to hire his studio. He had paid a twelvemonth's rent
in advance, not daring to trust hunger with the money. He lived, poor
fellow, by carving meerschaum pipes for the trade, but he lived _for_
'Madeline and Porphyro' and his art. It took Barndale a long time to get
into this young artist's confidence; but he got there at last, and made
a bid for 'Madeline and Porphyro,' and paid something in advance for it,
and had the work completed. He sold it to a connoisseur at an amazing
profit, handed that profit to young Antoletti, and made a man of him.
'What can I do for you?' the artist asked him with all his grateful
Italian soul on fire, and the tears sparkling in his beautiful Italian
eyes. Barn-dale hesitated awhile: 'You won't feel hurt,' he said at
length, 'if I seem to ask too smal