The Lady Paramount

hedding a cheerful aroma of bay-rum, regarded Anthony, across the bowlful of ro

y his expression became remote and superior, "The state of mind of a per

his spoon int

fect she produces upon a man; the way she pursues one, persists with one. I see her, I hear her voice

ement provoking no

eated, "to conceive the state

e," said Anthony,

l a pronounced personality,-though that does n't seem a ver

econd egg, and plac

arently, you live contented. Yet, be apprised by me, you live in the manner of the beasts that perish

o my eminently competent man of b

black hair, and the sweep of it as it leaves her brow; and then those luminous, lucid, glowing, glowing eyes-that last smile

re of pains, extracted the

e depths of ocean-the cook ought to bone them before she sends them to table, ought n'

our complaints to the

th

n't tell. It's the vividness of the South, of the Italy that produced her,-'Italy, whose work still serves the world for miracle.' She's vivid, b

ull. "Observe how, in the labyrinth of destiny, journeys end in the most romantic and improbable

ure,-the flow of it, the spring of it,-the lines it takes when she mov

a paragraph in this week's Beaux and Belles which says that sugar in tea is quite the correct thing again. Thank merc

ghbours thou

Tongue can

ur Tooth has

ghbours tho

oem about toothache, and does n't perhaps app

iguous term," said A

trong as a perfect young animal is strong. Yet she is fine. She is fine as only, of all created beings, a fin

me by honestly; a thing the possession of which

it from their forebears," said Anthony, as one l

uncertain, interesting rest-we must do ourselves. We must earn our life; and then we should spend it-lavishly, like noble, freehanded gentlemen. Well, we earn our life by labou

with haste. "It is excellent to have a giant's

ed. Not that she strikes one exactly as a young girl, either,-she exhibits too plentiful a lack of young-girlish rawness and insipidity,-she 's a woman, she 's a femme faite. But I can't think of her as a

poured cream over a plate

eaven too," he

e eyes bright with anti

e brightn

d and watery-a mere sour bath. You may have them all." He pushed the dish towards Anthony. "I suppose it's too early in the season to hope for good ones. But this"-he charge

l the c

nie's c

unable to conceive. And that 's funny, because it is generally true that the larger comprehends the less. But I look at you, and I think to myself, thinks I, 'There is a man-or at least the se

re," said Anthony, w

ives, trying to embellish the same with semi-breves and crotchets.' That is what I think to myself

e her again till Sunday; and to-day

n, "I remember your telling

serenely, you will drift to your grave, and never once know what it is to be consumed, harried, driven by a deep, inextinguishable, unassuageable craving to write a song. You 'll never know the heartburn, the unrest, the conscience-sickness, the self-abasement that I know when I 'm not writing one, nor the glorious anguish

d watch the pantomime. You long to get upon the stage. Your unassuageable craving to write a song is, in its essence, just an unassuageable crav

ell, my unassuageable craving to write a song is, in its essence, just a great, splendid, generous desire to indemnify the world. The world needs me-the world has me not-but the world shall have me. For the world's behoof, I will translate myself into semi-breves and crotchets. So there! Besides, to be entirely frank, I can't help it. Nothing human is perfect that does not exhibit somewhere a fine

words that Friday was

so it is,"

e, is the luckiest day of the seven. All sorts o

us who don't happen to be named Tony-unberufen! Take a man like me, for instance, an intellectual young fellow, with work to do, but delicate, and dependent for his strength upon the regular administration of sustaining nourishment. Well, Friday comes, and there he is, for twenty-four hours by the clock, obliged to keep up, as best he may, on fish and vegetables and suchlike kickshaws, when every fibre of his frame is crying out for meat, red meat. And now"-he pushed back his chair-

o himself, "barring happy acci

ent into

t. But virtually, as I need n't remind you, there is no such thing as the present. The present is an infinitesimal between two infinites. 'T is a line (a thing without breadth or thickness) moving across the surface of Eternity. The present is no more, by the time you have said, This is present. So, then, it were inordin

ck. The rest of the torn ribbon he careful