that the bachelors were jolly over their meal. Indeed, their
mutual rallying was not altogether of the most delicate kind, and
several favorite signoritas were allude to with various degrees of
insinuation. In all this, Frank, whose voice I could well distinguish
(its echoes had never left my ear), and which I was satisfied, from
Evelyn's peculiar expression, that she also recognized, bore a prominent
part. Evelyn was astonished. Frank soon appeared, looking the least like
the imaginative and love-vitalized artist possible, and entirely like
the gay young dog I knew he had become. The confused character of
_their_ greetings may be conceived. But of this I professed to be
entirely uncognizant, and, after a hasty visit to the studio, gave Frank
an invitation to dinner on the succeeding day, and we departed.

The money with which I had liberally supplied Frank had induced him to
enter with a youthful zest into the pleasures of life, and his dream of
love for Evelyn had attenuated into a mere memory. He was now a
successful and courted artist. I was possessed of another fact in
reference to him--that he was very much domesticated in an American
family residing in the city, one of whose young lady members was greatly
disposed, much to Frank's satisfaction, to recompense to him whatever
subtractions from his fund of love had previously been wasted on Evelyn.
Access to this family had been secured to Frank on my recommendation,
given before they left America. I conveyed Evelyn to their residence,
and, after also inviting them to our proposed dinner, we returned to our
temporary home.

I was careful not to intrude on Evelyn during the evening, leaving her
alone to struggle with the melancholy which I knew the incidents of the
day must induce.

Frank arrived early the next day. Evelyn's presence had evidently
renewed the power of his former feelings. Indeed, had opportunity
offered, he was prepared to give way to them, but I was careful that
none should be afforded. When our other guests arrived he was thrown
into unexpected confusion. The conflict between the past and the present
love--the ideal and the real--the shadow and the substance--the memory
and the actual--was painful, yet ridiculous to look upon. I calmly
watched, without giving any symptom of observation, the results of my
strategy, and never did a chess-player more rejoice over the issue of a
hard-fought contest. Evelyn, as I perceived, soon discovered all the
ci