Few men in like position have led so varied a life as the owner of "Valkyrie," and as a consequence he has come into contact with most men and women worth knowing. In social circles he is very popular, and no smart entertainment is complete without him. In clubland he is always welcome, and is as equally at home at the Beefsteak or the Savage as at the Marlborough or the Turf. While Parliament is sitting he is often found at the Carlton, discussing with his party the latest move on the political chess-board, or talking science and literature with his friends at the Athenaeum. His energy is boundless. He will work all the morning, legislate in the afternoon, dine out, and then spend the evening in amusement. Travelling to him is nothing. He never tires. He is an early riser, and no matter what time he goes to bed is always up and attending to his correspondence at the usual hour the next morning. In this way he gets through a great amount of work, and is able to find time for the same amount of pleasure. He is very generous, and as a result is often imposed upon. Not only is he called upon to give money toward the charities in his own neighborhoods, but people write to him from all parts of the United Kingdom to help them in their distress. Often he yields, and many a home has been made happy by a gift of money or money's worth. Scarcely a church or chapel on his Welsh estate is self-supporting. All expect, and many get, grants from Lord Dunraven. In Ireland, too, he is equally liberal; and Father Flanagan, the priest at Adare, could tell many a tale of want relieved and assistance given to the Catholics on the estate. LONDON, ENGLAND. AT A DANCE. My queen is tired and craves surcease Of twanging string and clamorous brass; I lean against the mantelpiece, And watch her in the glass. One whom I see not where I stand Fans her, and talks in whispers low; Her loose locks flutter as his hand Moves lightly to and fro. He begs a flower; her finger tips Stray round a rose half veiled in lace; She grants the boon with smiling lips, Her clear eyes read his face. I cannot look--my sight grows dim-- While Fate allots, unequally, The living woman's self to him, The mirrored form to me. DULCES AMARYLLIDIS IRAE. I told my love a truth she liked not well; She spoke no word. I raised my eyes to watch Her cheek's red flush, her bosom's angry swell; She rose to go; her hand was on the latch; When some swift thought--of my fond love, maybe, Or ill-requited patience--bowed her head: She faltered, paused with foot half raised to flee, Then turned, and stole into my arms instead. _Reproduced, by special arrangement, from_ "Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verse," by Augusta de Gruchy. London: Edwin Matthews and John Lane, 1893. A SPLENDID TIME--AHEAD. BY WALTER BESANT. I.