, however,
was a certain Major Campbell, of whom more hereafter; who, however,
being a lofty-minded and perhaps somewhat Pharisaic person, made
heavier demands on Scoutbush's conscience than he had yet been able to
meet; for fully as he agreed that Hercules' choice between pleasure
and virtue was the right one, still he could not yet follow that
ancient hero along the thorny path, and confined his conception of
"duty" to the minimum guard and drill. He had estates in Ireland,
which had almost cleared themselves during his long minority, but
which, since the famine, had cost him about as much as they brought
him in; and estates in the West, which, with a Welsh slate-quarry,
brought him in some seven or eight thousand a-year; and so kept his
poor little head above water, to look pitifully round the universe,
longing for the life of him to make out what it all meant, and hoping
that somebody would come and tell him.

So much for his meekness and humility in general; as for the
particular display of those virtues which he has shown to-day, it must
be understood that he has given a promise to Mrs. Mellot not to make
love to La Cordifiamma; and, on that only condition, has been allowed
to meet her to-night at one of Claude Mellot's petits soupers.

La Cordifiamma has been staying, ever since she came to England, with
the Mellots in the wilds of Brompton; unapproachable there, as in all
other places. In public, she is a very Zenobia, who keeps all animals
of the other sex at an awful distance; and of the fifty young puppies
who are raving about her beauty, her air, and her voice, not one has
obtained an introduction; while Claude, whose studio used to be a
favourite lounge of young Guardsmen, has, as civilly as he can, closed
his doors to those magnificent personages ever since the new singer
became his guest.

Claude Mellot seems to have come into a fortune of late years, large
enough, at least, for his few wants. He paints no longer, save when he
chooses; and has taken a little old house in one of those back lanes
of Brompton, where islands of primaeval nursery garden still remain
undevoured by the advancing surges of the brick and mortar deluge.
There he lives, happy in a green lawn, and windows opening thereon;
in three elms, a cork, an ilex, and a mulberry, with a great standard
pear, for flower and foliage the queen of all suburban trees. There he
lies on the lawn, upon strange skins, the summer's day, playing with
c