"A dead failure?" returned Daphne, resenting the expression. "Well there's one of his pictures in the next room, and you can judge for yourself whether he's a failure or not. He isn't the equal of Doré or Alma Tadema yet, but he may be, for he has genius, and some day it will be recognised." "Ah, let us hope it will," I replied drily, meaning, of course, the reverse. "Thou shalt have none other gods but me" is the language of every lover to his lady, and Daphne's interest in the artist moved my jealousy a little. "I am not sure that Germany has improved you," Daphne said, looking at me critically, "but never mind that now. You haven't seen my wedding gifts. They are in the next room. Papa, I am going to show Frank my presents." And holding her long train with one hand, Daphne rested the other on my arm, and conducted me beneath some heavy hangings to the next apartment. The gifts were arranged in tasteful order on a wide and spacious table. "You see this picture? It is Mr. Vasari's gift--the work of his own hand. 'The Betrayal of Ariadne' he calls it. Don't you think she bears a resemblance to me?--her eyes and hair are just the colour of mine." I was somewhat surprised to see a painting which, in my judgment, rose far above mediocrity. The composition was graceful and the colouring harmonious. This is what the canvas showed: Faint blue waves rippling over amber sands; a maiden kneeling thereby, with the teardrops falling from her eyes, her arms extended towards a distant galley on the sea; and a human figure advancing from a wood with a wreath in his hand. My comprehension of the work was aided by its author, who had followed us from the drawing-room. "Theseus deserts her," said he, "but amid the woodland foliage on the left you will see the beautiful Bacchus: he will kiss away her tears, and console her for the loss of her false hero. See! he bears in his hand a laurel-wreath: it is the crown of fame, whose sweet attraction will cause her first love to fade from her memory like a morning dream. The picture," he added with a curious smile, "is a sort of allegory to intimate that second love is preferable to the first." Daphne gave an indignant little gasp at these words, and elevated her pretty eyebrows. "I don't believe second love is better than the first; do you, Frank?" Had Daphne absolutely forgotten the cause which had banished me so long from her presence that she could thus appeal to me? Or, remembering it, did she delight in reminding me of the power she held over me? "The sun is still the sun at noon and at eventide," I replied; "but it is only in the early morning hours that his beams are supremely soft and lovely. So with love. Second love can never have the sweet freshness, the dewy fragrance peculiar to the first dawn of passion!"