“‘You have had a military subject lately?’ he said, indicating the instrument. “‘No, General,’ I answered on an impulse. ‘That is a relic of some years of youthful folly when I played Kildalton’s silver drum, and it serves to solace my bachelor solitude.’ “‘Heavens!’ he cried; ‘you, then, are the drummer of Ciudad Rodrigo?’ “‘The same,’ I answered, not without a bitterness. ‘But a very different man from the one you imagine.’ And then I told my story. He listened in a curious mingling of apparent shame, regret, and pleasure, and when I had ended was almost piteous in his plea for pardon. ‘The cursed thing is,’ he said, that Margory maintains your innocence till this very day.’ “That she should have that confidence in me,’ said I, ‘is something of a compensation for the past ten years. I trust Miss Margory—I trust your niece is well.’ “The General pondered for a moment, then made a proposition. “‘I think, Mr Urquhart,’ said he, ‘that a half-winged old man is but a poor subject for any sculptor’s chisel, and, with your kind permission, I should prefer to have a portrait of Miss Margory, whom I can swear you will find quite worthy of your genius.’ “And so,” said Urquhart in conclusion, “and so, indeed, she was.” “There is but one _dénouement_ possible,” I said with profound conviction, and, as I said it, a bar of song rose in the garden, serene and clear and unexpected like the first morning carol of a bird in birchen shaws. Then the door of the studio flung open, and the singer entered, with the melody checked on her lips whenever she saw the unexpected stranger. She had hair the colour of winter bracken in sunshine, and the merriest smile. “My daughter Margory,” said the sculptor. “Tell your mother,” he added, “that I bring our friend to luncheon.” THE SCOTTISH POMPADOUR. SEVERAL years ago there was no figure more conspicuous on the boulevards of Paris at the fashionable hour than that of the dandy called le Pompadour écossais by the journals. He had what will command attention anywhere, but most of all in Paris—the mould of an Apollo, a tailor of genius, the money of a Monte Cristo, and above all, Mystery. In the speech of this tall, dark, and sober-visaged exquisite there was no hint of a foreign nationality. His French was perfect; his idioms were correctly chosen; only his title, Lord Balgowie, and a foible for the use of the checkered stuff his countrymen call tartan, in his waistcoats, proclaimed that he was a Scot. That he should elect to spend his time in Paris seemed but natural to the boulevardiers: it is the only place for young gentlemen of spirit and the essential cash; but why should he feed himself like an anchorite while he surfeited his friends? why, with such a gay exterior, should be allied a mind so sober, private character so blameless and austere? These problems exercised the speculations of the café tables all the summer.