front every one of our acquaintance."

"Three days are not an eternity," said he, half gayly, "and we must make
the best of it."

CHAPTER III. A VERY "FINE GENTLEMAN"

One word about Mr. Norman Maitland, of whom this history will have
something more to say hereafter. He was one of those men, too few
in number to form a class, but of which nearly every nation on the
Continent has some examples,--men with good manners and good means, met
with always in the great world,--at home in the most exclusive circles,
much thought of, much caressed; but of whom, as to family, friends, or
belongings, no one can tell anything. They who can recall the society of
Paris some forty years back, will remember such a man in Montrond. Rich,
accomplished, handsome, and with the most fascinating address, Montrond
won his way into circles the barriers to which extended even to royalty;
and yet all the world were asking, "Who is he?--who knows him?" Maitland
was another of these. Men constantly canvassed him, agreed that he was
not of these "Maitlands" or of those--that nobody was at school with
him,--none remembered him at Eton or at Rugby. He first burst upon life
at Cambridge, where he rode boldly, was a first-rate cricketer, gave
splendid wine-parties, wrote a prize poem, and disappeared none ever
knew whence or wherefore. He was elected for a borough, but only was
seen twice or thrice in the House. He entered the army, but left without
joining his regiment. He was to be heard of in every city of Europe,
living sumptuously, playing high,--more often a loser than a winner. His
horses, his carriages, his liveries, were models; and wherever he went
his track could be marked in the host of imitators he left behind him.
For some four or five years back all that was known of him was in some
vague paragraph appearing from time to time that some tourist had met
him in the Rocky Mountains, or that he had been seen in Circassia. An
Archduke on his travels had partaken of his hospitality in the extreme
north of India; and one of our naval commanders spoke of dining on board
his yacht in the Southern Pacific. Those who were curious about him
learned that he was beginning to show some slight touches of years,--how
he had grown fatter, some said more serious and grave,--and a few
censoriously hinted that his beard and moustaches were a shade darker
than they used to be. Maitland, in short, was just beginning to drop out
of people's minds, when he re