--the writings of Walter Scott--had their place of
honour in his library. The collection of the Waverley Novels at Tadmor
had not been complete. Enviable Amelius had still to read _Rob Roy._
He opened the book. For the rest of the day he was in love with Diana
Vernon; and when he looked out once or twice at the garden to rest his
eyes, he saw "Andrew Fairservice" busy over the flowerbeds.

He closed the last page of the noble story as Toff came in to lay the
cloth for dinner.

The master at table and the servant behind his chair were accustomed
to gossip pleasantly during meals. Amelius did his best to carry on the
talk as usual. But he was no longer in the delightful world of illusion
which Scott had opened to him. The hard realities of his own everyday
life had gathered round him again. Observing him with unobtrusive
attention, the Frenchman soon perceived the absence of the easy humour
and the excellent appetite which distinguished his young master at other
times.

"May I venture to make a remark, sir?" Toff inquired, after a long pause
in the conversation.

"Certainly."

"And may I take the liberty of expressing my sentiments freely?"

"Of course you may."

"Dear sir, you have a pretty little simple dinner to-day," Toff began.
"Forgive me for praising myself, I am influenced by the natural pride
of having cooked the dinner. For soup, you have Croute au pot; for meat,
you have Tourne-dos a la sauce poivrade; for pudding, you have Pommes
au beurre. All so nice--and you hardly eat anything, and your amiable
conversation falls into a melancholy silence which fills me with regret.
Is it you who are to blame for this? No, sir! it is the life you lead. I
call it the life of a monk; I call it the life of a hermit--I say boldly
it is the life of all others which is most unsympathetic to a young man
like you. Pardon the warmth of my expressions; I am eager to make my
language the language of utmost delicacy. May I quote a little song? It
is in an old, old, old French piece, long since forgotten, called 'Les
Maris Garcons'. There are two lines in that song (I have often heard
my good father sing them) which I will venture to apply to your case;
'Amour, delicatesse, et gaite; D'un bon Francais c'est la devise!' Sir,
you have naturally delicatesse and gaite--but the last has, for some
days, been under a cloud. What is wanted to remove that cloud? L'Amour!
Love, as you say in English. Where is the charming woman, who is t