“Egad, then, it makes one very sorry for poor mankind,” muttered Harcourt, with a most honest sincerity of voice. “Why should it do so, my good Harcourt? Is the refinement of a woman's intellect a worse guide than the coarser instincts of a man's nature? Would you not yourself rather trust your destinies to the fair creature yonder than be left to the legislative mercies of that old gentleman there, Hardenberg, or his fellow on the other side, Metternich?” “Grim-looking fellow the Prussian; the other is much better,” said Harcourt, rather evading the question. “I confess I prefer the Princess,” said Upton, as he bowed before the portrait in deepest courtesy. “But here comes breakfast. I have ordered them to give it to us here, that we may enjoy that glorious sea view while we eat.” “I thought your cook a man of genius, Upton, but this fellow is his master,” said Harcourt, as he tasted his soup. “They are brothers,--twins, too; and they have their separate gifts,” said Upton, affectedly. “My fellow, they tell me, has the finer intelligence; but he plays deeply, speculates on the Bourse, and it spoils his nerve.” Harcourt watched the delivery of this speech to catch if there were any signs of raillery in the speaker; he felt that there was a kind of mockery in the words; but there was none in the manner, for there was not any in the mind of him who uttered them. “My _chef_,” resumed Upton, “is a great essayist, who must have time for his efforts. This fellow is a _feuilleton_ writer, who is required to be new and sparkling every day of the year,--always varied, never profound.” “And is this your life of every day?” said Harcourt, as he surveyed the splendid room, and carried his glance towards the terraced gardens that flanked the sea. “Pretty much this kind of thing,” sighed Upton, wearily. “And no great hardship either, I should call it.” “No, certainly not,” said the other, hesitatingly. “To one like myself, for instance, who has no health for the wear and tear of public life, and no heart for its ambitions, there is a great deal to like in the quiet retirement of a first-class mission.” “Is there really, then, nothing to do?” asked Harcourt, innocently. “Nothing, if you don't make it for yourself. You can have a harvest if you like to sow. Otherwise, you may lie in fallow the year long. The subordinates take the petty miseries of diplomacy for _their_ share,--the sorrows of insulted Englishmen, the passport difficulties, the custom-house troubles, the police insults. The Secretary calls at the offices of the Government, carries messages and the answers; and I, when I have health for it, make my compliments to the King in a cocked hat on his birthday, and have twelve grease-pots illuminated over my door to honor the same festival.” “And is that all?”