empressement_ that they certainly wouldn't have been honored
by without it. They were rather frightened at coming in actual contact
with such a monster of iniquity as a Paris _Lion_, who, they'd heard,
had out-Juan'd Don Juan, and gave him but a frigid welcome. Mr. Gordon
had doubtless heard, too, of Vaughan's misdemeanors, for he looked
stoical and acidulated as he bowed. But the young girl's eyes reconciled
Ernest to all the rest, as she frankly returned a look with which he was
wont to win his way through women's hearts, 'midst the hum of ball
rooms, in the soft tete-a-tete in boudoirs, and over the sparkling
Sillery of _petits soupers_. So, for the sake of his new quarry, he
disregarded the cold looks of the others, and made himself so charming,
that nobody could withstand the fascination of his manner till their
dinner was served, and then, telling his cousins he would do himself the
pleasure of calling on them the next day, he left the cafe to drive over
to Gentilly, to inspect a grey colt of De Kerroualle's.

"La chevelure doree is quite as pretty by daylight, Ernest," said De
Concressault. "Bon dieu! it is such a relief to see eyes that are not
tinted, and a skin whose pink and white is not born from the mysterious
rites of the toilet."

Vaughan nodded, with his Manilla between his teeth.

"That cousin of yours is queer style, mon garcon," said Kerroualle.
"How some of those islanders contrive to iron themselves into the
stiffness and flatness they do, is to me the profoundest enigma. But
what Church of England meaning lies hid in his coat-tails? They are, for
all the world, like our reverends peres! What is it for?"

"High Church. Next door shop to yours, you know. Our ecclesiastics are
given to balancing themselves on a tight rope between their 'mother' and
their 'sister,' till they tumble over into their sister's open arms--the
Catholics say into salvation, the Protestants into damnation; into
neither, I myself opine, poor simpletons. Ruskinstone is fearfully
architectural. The sole things he'll see here will be facades,
gurgoyles, and clerestories, and his soul knows no warmer loves than
'stone dolls,' as Newton calls them. I say, Gaston, what do you think of
_my_ love of the Francais; isn't she _chic_, isn't she mignonne, isn't
she spirituelle?"

"Yes," assented De Kerroualle, "prettier than either Bluette or Madame
de Melusine would allow, or--relish."

Ernest frowned. "I've done with Bluette; she's