delicate flavour, thereby driving the Tookseys and Snookseys into a more feverish condition then ever. Paul Valdis heard the news suddenly, when he was dressing for his part as Ernani, on an evening when Royalty had announced its ‘gracious’ intention of being present to see him do it. And there would appear to have been something not altogether incorrect in the rumour that he was ‘madly in love’ with Delicia, for he turned very white and lost command of his usual equable temper in an altercation with his ‘dresser,’ whom he dismissed abruptly with something like an oath. ‘“Lady” Carlyon!’ he said to himself, staring at his own classic face and brilliant, dark eyes in the little mirror which dominated his ‘make-up’ table. ‘And I no more than mime!—stage-puppet and plaything of the public! Wait, though! I am something more! I am a MAN!—in heart and soul and feeling! a man, which my “Lord” Carlyon is not!’ And he played that night, not for Royalty, which clapped its lavender kid gloves at him in as much enthusiastic approval as Royalty ever shows, but for her new ‘ladyship,’ who sat in a box overlooking the stage, dressed in pure white with a knot of lilies at her bosom, dreamily unconscious that Ernani was anything but Ernani, or that Valdis was putting his own fiery soul into Victor Hugo’s dummy, and making it live, breathe and burn with a passionate ardour never equalled on the stage, and of which she, Delicia, was the chief inspiration. Delicia was, in very truth, curiously unconscious of the excitement and unrest she always managed to create around herself unintentionally. Her strong individuality was to blame, but she was as unaware of the singular influence she exerted as a rose is unaware of the fragrance its sheds. Everything she did was watched and commented upon—her manners, her dress, her gestures, the very turn of her head, and the slow, supple movements of her body. And society was for ever on the lookout for a glance, a sigh, a word which might indicate the ‘dropping of the handkerchief’ to Paul Valdis. But the closest espionage failed to discover anything compromising in Delicia’s way of life or daily conduct. This caused the fury of the Tookseys and Snookseys to rage unabatedly, while, so far as Delicia herself was concerned, she had no thought beyond the usual two subjects which absorbed her existence—her work and her husband. Her title made no sort of difference to her in herself—‘Delicia Vaughan’ was still the charmed name wherewith she ‘drew’ her public, many of whom scarcely glanced at the ‘Lady Carlyon’ printed in small type between brackets, underneath the more famous appellation on the title-pages of all her books. And in her own mind she was more amused than edified by the flunkey-like attention shown to her ‘ladyship’ honours. ‘How nice for you,’ said a female acquaintance to her on one of her visiting days, ‘to have a title! Such a distinction for literature, isn’t it?’