skinstones. He had come to
go with them to St. Germain, and, with a dexterous manoeuvre, took the
very seat in the carriage opposite Nina that Eusebius had planned for
himself. But the Warden was no match for the _Lion_ in such affairs,
and, being exiled to the barouche with Gordon and Augusta, took from
under the seat a folio of the "Stones of Venice," and read sulkily all
the way.

"My dear fellow," said Vaughan, when they reached St. Germain, "don't
you think you would prefer to sit in the carriage, and finish that
delightful work, to coming to see some simple woods and terraces? If you
would, pray don't hesitate to say so; I am sure Miss Gordon will excuse
your absence."

The solicitous courtesy of Ernest's manner was boiling oil to the fire
raging in the Warden's gentle breast, and Eusebius, besides, was not
quick at retorts. "I am not guilty of any such bad taste," he said,
stiffly, "though I do discover a charm in severe studies, which I
believe you never did."

"No, never," said Ernest, laughing; "my genius does not lie that way;
and I've no vacant bishopric in my mind's eye to make such studies
profitable. Even you, you know, light of the Church as you are, want
recreation sometimes. Confess now, the chansons a boire last night
sounded pleasant after long months of Faithandgrace services!"

Eusebius looked much as I have seen a sleek tom-cat, who bears a
respectable character generally, surprised in surreptitiously licking
out of the cream-jug. He had the night before (when he was popularly
supposed to be sitting under Adolphe Monod) tasted rather too many
petits verres up at the Pre Catalan, utterly unconscious of his cousin's
proximity. The pure-minded soul thus cruelly caught looked prayers of
piteous entreaty to Vaughan not to damage his milk-white reputation by
further revelation of this unlucky detour into the Broad Road; and
Ernest, who, always kind-hearted, never hit a man when he was down,
contented himself with saying:

"Ah! well, we are none of us pure alabaster, though some of the
sepulchres _do_ contrive to whiten themselves up astonishingly. My
father, poor man, once wished to put me in the Church. Do you think I
should have graced it, Selina?"

"I can't say I do," sneered Selina.

"You think I should _disgrace_ it? Very probably. I am not good at
'canting.'" And giving Nina his arm, the Warden being much too confused
to forestall him, he whispered: "when is that atrocious saint going to