"Bah! Plancus is consul still; don't be downhearted, my friend; you are still in the pleasant city of Prague." "Pleasant? that is as it may be. I think it a very disagreeable city without money. Bohemianism is charming in novels, but in real life it is generally a hunt after what Murger calls that voracious animal, the half-crown." "And after women!" "Ah, bah! Lais and Phryne; both charming, but slightly improper, not to say expensive." "Take the other side of the shield," said the Jew gently. "Lucretia, and--and--by Jove, I can't recollect the name of any other virtuous woman." "Who is the lady of the music?" "My affianced wife," retorted Stewart curtly. "Ah!" said Ezra thoughtfully, "then we have a feeling in common, I am also engaged." Stewart laughed gaily. "And we both think our lady-loves perfect," he said lightly. "'Dulcinea is the fairest woman in the world,'--poor Don Quixote." "Mine is to me," said Ezra emphatically. "Of course," answered Stewart, with a smile. "I can picture her, tall, dark, and stately, an imperial daughter of Judah, with the beauty of Bathsheba and the majesty of Esther." "Entirely wrong," replied Lazarus dryly, "she is neither tall, dark, nor stately, but--" "The exact opposite--I take your meaning," said Keith composedly; "well, my Dulcinea is like the sketch I have given--beautiful, clever, poor, and--a governess." "And you haven't seen her for a year?" "No--a whole twelvemonth--she is up Sandhurst way trying to hammer dates and the rule of three into the thick heads of five small brats, and I--well I'm an unsuccessful literary man, doing what is vulgarly known as 'a perish.'" "What made you take up writing?" asked Lazarus. "What made me take up writing?" repeated Stewart, staring vaguely into the fire. "Lord knows--destiny, I suppose--I've had a queer sort of life altogether. I was born of poor but honest parents, quite the orthodox style of thing, isn't it?" "Are your parents alive?" "Dead!" laconically. There was a pause of a few moments, during which time Keith was evidently deep in thought. "According to Sir Walter Scott," he observed at length, "every Scotchman has a pedigree. I've got one as long as the tail of a kite, only not so useful. I'd sell all my ancestors, as readily as Charles Surface did his, for a few pounds. My people claim to be connected with the royal Stewarts." "Your name is spelt differently." "It's spelt correctly," retorted Keith coolly, "in the good old Scottish fashion; as for the other, it's the French method acclimatised by Mary Stuart when she married the Dauphin of France." "Well, now I know your pedigree, what is the story of your life?"