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is the check thereof," cut in the duke, as if to stop any thanks. "I dare say that is all spent."

      "It is, indeed," assented the young man, candidly.

      The duke laughed easily.

      "Who cares? Not you, who, I dare say, have had your enjoyment out of it; not I, who have more money than I know what to do with. How much? Shall we say a thousand, Yorke?"

      Yorke Auchester's face flushed.

      "I should like to say it is too much," he said. "But you wouldn't believe me if I did, Dolph."

      The duke smiled.

      "I certainly should not. I can guess how quickly money flies when one is young and strong, blessed with youth's appetite for pleasure."

      He filled in the check in a sharp, pointed hand and gave it to his cousin.

      "There you are. You must spend some of it down here for the honor of the name."

      Yorke laughed.

      "All right," he said, "though I don't quite know what I can buy. Sixpence in periwinkles would go a long way."

      "Yes," said the duke; "that is what I find. Money is a burden and a nuisance if you don't know how to get rid of it. Suppose you buy half a crown's worth of winkles and a lobster or two."

      When Grey came in with the lunch he was surprised to find his master in so bright a humor.

      "You quite understand the arrangement between Lord Auchester and me, Grey?" said the duke.

      "Yes, your gra—sir."

      The duke smiled.

      "My name is Temple, Grey," he said; "this gentleman is the Duke of Rothbury. Don't forget that, and don't, by a slip, let the cat out of the bag. I want to be quiet, and to avoid the worry of being called upon and stared at while I am down here. You're sure you understand, Grey?"

      "Quite, sir; oh, quite," said Grey, who was an admirable servant; and in addition to being, as the duke had said, the pink and pattern of discretion, had lived long enough with his grace to know him thoroughly, and to appreciate a good master, who, with all his whims and fads, was tenderness and liberality personified.

      "Of course you do," said the duke. "You must be as glad of a little quiet as I can be, and we shall get it down here under this arrangement. Now, mind, be careful and keep the secret. Have you brought up my beef tea? Very well, you need not wait."

      Grey wheeled his master to the table, cast a glance of respectful astonishment at Lord Auchester, which meant, "You and I must humor him, of course, my lord," and left the room.

      "A nice lunch, isn't it, Yorke?" said the duke, looking round the table. "I hope you will enjoy it. You are nearly always hungry, aren't you?" and he sighed as he smiled.

      "Quite always," assented Yorke Auchester. "Chops, soles, and a custard pudding. Right. Sure you won't have any, Dolph?"

      The duke shook his head.

      "This is as much as I can digest," he said, tapping the basin before him indifferently. "Now tell me the news, Yorke—your grace."

      Yorke laughed.

      "News? I don't think there's any you don't know."

      "Not London news, I dare say," said the duke; "though I don't know much of that. I don't go out more often than I am obliged to. I don't dance, you see," he smiled, "and if I go to the theater I find that I distract the attention of the audience from what is going on upon the stage. I suppose they consider me as interesting, as good, if not better than any play. And as to plays, there aren't many good ones now. The last time I went was to that burlesque at the Diadem Theater, and everybody seemed 'gone,' as you call it, on that dancer. What's her name, eh?"

      Yorke Auchester was in the act of disboning his second sole. He stopped and looked up, paused for a moment with a rather singular expression on his frank, handsome face.

      "Finetta, do you mean?" he said, slowly.

      "Yes, that's the name, I think," said the duke, stirring his beef tea as if he hated it; "so called, I suppose, because she has finished so many good men and true. They tell me that she has completely ruined poor Charlie Farquhar. Is that so, Yorke?"

      Yorke seemed very much ingrossed in his sole.

      "Oh, Farquhar!" he said. "Yes, he is stone-broke; but I don't know that Fin—I mean Finetta—has had so much to do with it. Charlie was under the delusion that he understood horses, and——."

      "I see," said the duke. "Poor lad! I suppose if I offered to help him he would be quite offended?"

      "I don't know. You might try," said Yorke, dryly.

      "I'll see. But about this same Finetta. She was pretty——."

      Yorke Auchester looked up with a laugh. It was not a particularly merry one.

      "Only pretty?"

      "Well, yes, to my eyes; but I'm rather particular and hard to please, I'll admit. Oh, yes, she was pretty, and she danced," he smiled, "yes, she danced without doubt. The young men in the stalls seemed infatuated; but I didn't fall down and worship with the rest. Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, though I'm not much more than your age. Anyhow, a very little of Mlle. Finetta goes a long way with me. Do you know her, Yorke?"

      "Oh, everybody knows Finetta," replied Yorke Auchester, carelessly—a little too carelessly.

      "And some, it seems, like poor Charlie Farquhar, know her not wisely but too well. Well, I've not been to the theater since, and that's six weeks ago. Is that chop tender?"

      "First rate; try it."

      "I dare not; but I enjoy seeing you eat it. I've often had thoughts of having a man with a good appetite that I might have the pleasure of seeing him eat a square meal while I sit cursing my beef tea and gruel. The night I went to the Diadem I took Eleanor——."

      Yorke Auchester suspended his fork half way to his mouth, and looked at his cousin.

      "Oh," he said, and whatever the "Oh" might have been intended to mean it was singularly dull and inexpressive.

      "Yes, it was her birthday, and she asked me to take her. That was kind of her, wasn't it?"

      "Was it?" said Yorke, dryly.

      "Well, I think so. You mean that most young girls would like to go to the theater with the Duke of Rothbury, or for the matter of that any other duke—unmarried; but that's because they would go with the hope of repeating the visit some day as his duchess. But Eleanor knows that I should not marry her; we have come to a plain understanding on the subject."

      "I see," said Yorke Auchester. "I suppose this is Dartmoor mutton? It's very good."

      "I dare say," assented the duke, with a smile. "But to return to my mutton, which is Eleanor. It was her birthday, and I took her to the theater and gave her a small present; the Rothbury pearls."

      "Some persons would call an elephant small," remarked Yorke, laconically.

      "Did—did you give her anything, Yorke?" asked the duke, almost shyly, ignoring the comments.

      Yorke Auchester took a draught of the admirable claret which Grey had brought down with him, before replying.

      "I?" he said, carelessly. "No. Why should I? What would be the use. She doesn't expect anything better than a penwiper or a shilling prayer book from a pauper like me, and she has tin enough to buy a million of 'em if she wants them," and he attacked the custard.

      The duke leaned back in his chair, and looked at the handsome face of his cousin, with its frank and free, and happily devil-may-care expression.

      "I've a notion that Eleanor would value anything in the way of a penwiper or a prayer book you might give her, Yorke," he said.

      "Not she. It's only your fancy."

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