And she raised her eyes, half smiling, to the meditative countenance of Shakespeare. ‘Excellent and “divine Williams,” you must excuse me for fitting your patriotic line on England to my unworthy needs; but why _would_ you make yourself so eminently quotable?’ She paused, then took up a book lying on her desk. ‘Here is an excellent doctor for a sick, petulant child such as I am—Marcus Aurelius. What will you say to me, wise pagan? Let me see,’ and opening a page at random, her eyes fell on the words, ‘Do not suppose you are hurt, and your complaint ceases. Cease your complaint and you are not hurt.’ She laughed, and her face began to light up with all its usual animation. ‘Excellent Emperor! What a wholesome thrashing you give me! Anything more?’ And she turned over a few pages, and came upon one of the imperial moralist’s most coolly-dictatorial assertions. ‘What an easy matter it is to stem the current of your imagination, to discharge a troublesome or improper thought, and at once return to a state of calm!’ ‘I don’t know about that, Marcus,’ she said. ‘It is not exactly an “easy” matter to stem the current of imagination, but certainly it’s worth trying;’ and she read on, ‘To-day I rushed clear out of misfortune, or rather, I threw misfortune from me; for, to speak the truth, it was not outside, and never came any nearer than my own fancy.’ She closed the book smilingly—the beautiful equanimity of her disposition was completely restored. She left her pretty writing den, bidding Spartan remain there on guard—a mandate he was accustomed to, and which he obeyed instantly, though with a deep sigh, his mistress’s ‘evenings out’ being the chief trouble of his otherwise enviable existence. Delicia, meantime, went to dress for the Premier’s reception, and soon slipped into the robe she had had designed for herself by a famous firm of Indian embroiderers;—a garment of softest white satin, adorned with gold and silver thread, and pearls thickly intertwined, so as to present the appearance of a mass of finely-wrought jewels. A single star of diamonds glittered in her hair, and she carried a fan of natural lilies, tied with white ribbon. Thus attired, she joined her husband, who stood ready and waiting for her in the drawing-room. He glanced up at her somewhat shamefacedly. ‘You look your very best this evening, Delicia,’ he said. She made him a sweeping curtsey, and smiled. ‘My lord, your favouring praise doth overwhelm me!’ she answered. ‘Is it not meet and right that I should so appear as to be deemed worthy of the house of Carlyon!’