“Just do me the favor to open the bag, my dear Stevins. I am utterly without aid here,” said Upton, sighing drearily; and the other proceeded to litter the table and the floor with a variety of strange and incongruous parcels. “Report of factory commissioners,” cried he, throwing down a weighty quarto. “Yarmouth bloaters; Atkinson's cerulean paste for the eyebrows; Worcester sauce; trade returns for Tahiti; a set of shoemaking tools; eight bottles of Darby's pyloric corrector; buffalo flesh-brushes,--devilish hard they seem; Hume's speech on the reduction of foreign legations; novels from Bull's; top-boots for a tiger; and a mass of letters,” said Stevins, throwing them broadcast over the sofa. “No despatches?” cried Upton, eagerly. “Not one, by Jove!” said Stevins. “Open one of those Darby's. I 'll take a teaspoonful at once. Will you try it, Stevins?” “Thanks, your Excellency, I never take physic.” “Well, you dine here, then,” said he, with a sly look at the Princess. “Not to-day, your Excellency. I dine with Grammont at eight.” “Then I'll not detain you. Come back here to-morrow about eleven or a little later. Come to breakfast if you like.” “At what hour?” “I don't know,--at any hour,” sighed Upton, as he opened one of his letters and began to read; and Stevins bowed and withdrew, totally unnoticed and unrecognized as he slipped from the room. One after another Upton threw down, after reading half a dozen lines, muttering some indistinct syllables over the dreary stupidity of letter-writers in general. Occasionally he came upon some pressing appeal for money,--some urgent request for even a small remittance by the next post; and these he only smiled at, while he refolded them with a studious care and neatness. “Why will you not help me with this chaos, dear Princess?” said he, at last. “I am only waiting to be asked,” said she; “but I feared that there might be secrets--” “From you?” said he, with a voice of deep tenderness, while his eyes sparkled with an expression far more like raillery than affection. The Princess, however, had either not seen or not heeded it, for she was already deep in the correspondence. “This is strictly private. Am I to read it?” said she. “Of course,” said he, bowing courteously. And she read:--