has never once looked at him, has read correctly his fond hope and
final disappointment, allows a covert smile of pleased malevolence to
cross her face as she walks into the drawing-room.

Mr. Massereene is holding a long and very one-sided argument on the
subject of the barbarous Mussulman. As Luttrell evinces no faintest
desire to disagree with him in his opinions, the subject wears itself
out in due course of time; and John, winding up with an amiable wish
that every Turk that ever has seen the light or is likely to see the
light may be blown into fine dust, finishes his claret and rises, with
a yawn.

"I must leave you for awhile," he says: "so get out your cigars, and
don't wait for me. I'll join you later. I have had the writing of a
letter on my conscience for a week, and I must write it now or never. I
really do believe I have grasped my own meaning at last. Did you notice
my unusual taciturnity between the fish and the joint?"

"I can't say I did. I imagined you talking the entire time."

"My dear fellow, of what were you thinking. I sincerely trust you are
not going to be ill; but altogether your whole manner this evening----
Well, just at that moment a sudden inspiration seized me, and then and
there my letter rose up before me, couched in such eloquent language as
astonished even myself. If I don't write it down at once I am a lost
man."

"But now you have composed it to your satisfaction, why not leave the
writing of it until to-morrow?" expostulates Luttrell, trying to look
hearty, as he expresses a hypocritical desire for his society.

"I always remark," says John, "that sleeping on those treacherous
flights of fancy has the effect of taking the gilt off them. When I
rise in the morning they are hardly up to the mark, and appear by no
means so brilliant as they did over-night. Something within warns me if
I don't do it now I won't do it at all. There is more claret on the
sideboard,--or brandy, if you prefer it," says Mr. Massereene,
tenderly.

"Thanks,--I want nothing more," replies Luttrell, whose spirits are at
zero. As Massereene leaves him, he saunters toward the open window and
gazes on the sleeping garden. Outside, the heavens are alive with stars
that light the world in a cold, sweet way, although as yet the moon has
not risen. All is

"Clear, and bright, and deep;
Soft as love, and calm as death;
Sweet as a summer night without a breath."

Lighting a cigar (by the bye, c