book is a living portrait of the Princess of Highest Eminence, the Hope

of all Civilization.--Orders for copies of THE PRINCESS EGERIA reached

the astonished publishers before the book was advertized.

Speaking to editors, Redworth complimented them with friendly intimations

of the real authorship of the remarkable work appearing. He used a

certain penetrative mildness of tone in saying that 'he hoped the book

would succeed': it deserved to; it was original; but the originality

might tell against it. All would depend upon a favourable launching of

such a book. 'Mrs. Warwick? Mrs. Warwick?' said the most influential of

editors, Mr. Marcus Tonans; 'what! that singularly handsome woman? . .

The Dannisburgh affair? . . . She's Whitmonby's heroine. If she writes as

cleverly as she talks, her work is worth trumpeting.' He promised to see

that it went into good hands for the review, and a prompt review--an

essential point; none of your long digestions of the contents.

Diana's indefatigable friend had fair assurances that her book would be

noticed before it dropped dead to the public appetite for novelty. He was

anxious next, notwithstanding his admiration of the originality of the

conception and the cleverness of the writing, lest the Literary Reviews

should fail 'to do it justice': he used the term; for if they wounded

her, they would take the pleasure out of success; and he had always

present to him that picture of the beloved woman kneeling at the

fire-grate at The Crossways, which made the thought of her suffering any

wound his personal anguish, so crucially sweet and saintly had her image

then been stamped on him. He bethought him, in consequence, while sitting

in the House of Commons; engaged upon the affairs of the nation, and

honestly engaged, for he was a vigilant worker--that the Irish Secretary,

Charles Raiser, with whom he stood in amicable relations, had an

interest, to the extent of reputed ownership, in the chief of the

Literary Reviews. He saw Raiser on the benches, and marked him to speak

for him. Looking for him shortly afterward, the man was gone. 'Off to the

Opera, if he's not too late for the drop,' a neighbour said, smiling

queerly, as though he ought to know; and then Redworth recollected

current stories of Raiser's fantastical devotion to the popular prima

donna of the angelical voice.--He hurried to the Opera and met the vomit,

and heard in the crushroom how divine she had been that night. A fellow

member of the House, tolerably intimate with Raiser, informed him,

between frightful stomachic roulades of her final aria, of the likeliest

place where Raiser might be found when the Opera was over: not at his

Club, nor at his chambers: on one of the bridges--Westminster, he

fancied.

There was no need for Redworth to run hunting the man at so late an hour,

but he was drawn on by the similarity in dissimilarity of this devotee of

a woman, who could worship her at a distance, and talk of her to

everybody. Not till he beheld Raiser's tall figure cutting the

bridge-parapet, with a star over his shoulder, did he reflect on the

views the other might entertain of the nocturnal solicitation to see

'justice done' to a lady's new book in a particular Review, and the

absurd outside of the request was immediately smothered by the natural

simplicity and pressing necessity of its inside.

He crossed the road and said, 'Ah?' in recognition. 'Were you at the

Opera this evening?'

'Oh, just at the end,' said Raiser, pacing forward. 'It's a fine night.

Did you hear her?'

'No; too late.'

Raiser pressed ahead, to meditate by himself, as was his wont. Finding

Redworth beside him, he monologuized in his depths: 'They'll kill her.

She puts her soul into it, gives her blood. There 's no failing of the

voice. You see how it wears her. She's doomed. Half a year's rest on Como

. . . somewhere . . . she might be saved! She won't refuse to work.'

'Have you spoken to her?' said Redworth.

'And next to Berlin! Vienna! A horse would be . . . .

I? I don't know her,' Raiser replied. 'Some of their women stand it.

She's delicately built. You can't treat a lute like a drum without

destroying the instrument. We look on at a murder!'

The haggard prospect from that step of the climax checked his delivery.

Redworth knew him to be a sober man in office, a man with a head for

statecraft: he had made a weighty speech in the House a couple of hours

back. This Opera cantatrice, no beauty, though gentle, thrilling,

winning, was his corner of romance.

'Do you come here often?' he asked.

'Yes, I can't sleep.'

'London at night, from the bridge, looks fine. By the way . . .'

'It 's lonely here, that's the advantage,' said Rainer; 'I keep silver in

my pocket for poor girls going to their homes, and I'm left in peace. An

hour later, there's the dawn down yonder.'

'By the way,' Redworth interposed, and was told that after these nights

of her singing she never slept till morning. He swallowed the fact,

sympathized, and resumed: 'I want a small favour.'

'No business here, please!'

'Not a bit of it. You know Mrs. Warwick. . . . You know of her. She 's

publishing a book. I want you to use your influence to get it noticed

quickly, if you can.'

'Warwick? Oh, yes, a handsome woman. Ah, yes; the Dannisburgh affair,

yes. What did I hear!--They say she 's thick with Percy Dacier at

present. Who was talking of her! Yes, old Lady Dacier. So she 's a friend

of yours?'

'She's an old friend,' said Redworth, composing himself; for the dose he

had taken was not of the sweetest, and no protestations could be uttered

by a man of the world to repel a charge of tattlers. 'The truth is, her