Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-12-17

nes may think or say about me; and hope that that one person isn't going 10 be so un- kind as to scold me on a nice fiHs morning like this.'
 70, I am not scolding you. Mir. Richardson ; of course, if you like to ruin yourself, you can."
 "And, MT. Richardson,' if you please This is becoming serious"
 CT am not going to call you Val any more, !" Chris announced, with very slight increase of color. "Lady Barnstaple says it doesn't sound nice.'
 "Lady Barnstaple be hangedi Is she one of the amiable creatures who foretell my ruin? Anyhow, I don't see why she should be an infallible judge of what sounds nice."
 "But quite agree with her," interrupted Chris; "I am getting too old now to call men by their Christian names."
 "I don't want you to call any other man by his Christian name only if you address me as tMr. Richardson again shall go away"
 "Mr. Richardson" returned@Chris with great promptitude.
 However, the young man did not carry out his dreadful threat. He perched himself upon the wall instead, and allowed the ques- tion of nomenclature to fall into abeyancs, and chattered away volubly and rather anus ingly for quarter of an hour. His talk was chiefly of himself and his various exploits and experiences, which seemed to have been of a striking nature.
 To one of his own sex such conversation would have become intolerable; but it is to be feared that Miss Compton did not find it SO. The man was really something of a hero in Q physical sense. He was fair rider, 8 first rate swimmer, and the best lawn-tennis player in Cannes, which, added to his youth and beauty, were perhaps sufficient to excuse the admiration of girl of seventeen.
 He went away at last, remarkinG that he would be late for breakfast-party at which he had promised to be present; and before he was out of sight, small, delicste-looking man, very thin, very pale, with large, bright brown eyes and carefully trimmed beard and mustache, in which few gray hairs were visible, emerged from the villa and stepped slowly across the garden. Chris, who had been standing in the road scram- bled over the wall and ran to meet this new arrival, whom she kissed on both cheeks.
 "How are you this morning, father?' she asked. "Stil tired2"
 "I am still tired" replied MT. Compton, with a slight smile. q am always tired; I presume that always shall be tired to the end Of the chapter. Iti a sensation to which one grows accustomed in the long run" He paused for a moment, and then asked: "Was that young Richardson who you were talking to2"
 Chris nodded.
 "oh l Well, do you know, Chris, think you hesA OOGOCL lOo ldlh SHJ h4O1S " yOuhb AblSA- ardson. Not in private, mean. He is--well rather young cad"
 ooh, I don't think he is that l" cried Chris, with a touch of indignation.
 "No; you wouldn't. Otherwise, you would hardly care to talk to hlm. But he appears to me to be a cad. Disreputabls, too, or on the verge of it. And nobody knows anything about him. We had perhaps better let him drop. Not with a thump, you know, but just let him drop gently"
 MT. Compton had slow, languid method of pronunciation. Evidently he was not much interested in MT. Richardson, perhaps not very much in his daughter either, for he did not seem even to hear a murmured pro- test on her part. Presently he asked: "Wil you be seeing tho Lavsrgnes to-day2"
 "Yes," answered Chris. "I thought of breakfasting with them, if you were going out. suppose your are going outW
 ooh, of course," returned her father, with short laugh. "Whan don't go out2-and when don't I wish to goodness that could stay at homel have to lunch at the Duchess of Islay's, which is an unspeakable bore. was going to say that if you sec Lavergne, you might ask him to look in upon me when he has nothing else to do. Tomorrow morn- ming, perhaps. Tell him I have one or two more things to say to him about the-subjeot we were talking of the other day."
 At this moment one oS the small open car- riages which ply for hire at Cannes turned in at the gates of the villa, and MT. Compton, with farewell wave of his hand to his daughter, stepped into it and was driven away to the ducal festivity. There had been @ time when lunching or dining with duchesses had been delightful to him but that time had gone by. Now that he was upon the further side of mid dls age, Percival Compton was well known to, and even sought after by, those duchesSes, marchionesses, and other inferior luminaries. This distinction he owed no doubt primarily to his being poet, a musician, and novelist, but also in no small degree to his charming manners. Left a widower in early life, he had only one daughter, so that he might be said to enjoy the advantages of domesticity with out paying the customary high price for them i; and indeed he was spoken of with envy by most of his artistic superiors and equals as an example of a perfectly successful and happy man. However he had bad health spelling all.
 The thought of his daughter and her future began to be a serious worry to Mir. Compton. He realized that the present belongs to the young: he perceived that his little girl was a parsonage, & more important parsonage, possibly, than himself-and she would eAiy have three hundred year, and his heart was certainly all wrong. He was kindly, selfish, easy-going mortal who had never willingly injured any one, if he had never exerted him- self very much to do any one a service. As for his daughter, he really knew remarkably little about her. He had gone his way-a pleasant, busy way, what with his literary avocations, and his social engagements, and his wanderings from one continental water ing-place to another-and she had gone hers. He had taken care that she should be fur nished with the best of French masters, music-masters, riding-masters, and so forth i; the duchesses and the other great ladies had been very kind; she had associated freely with their children, and he had noted with satisfaction that she had caught the tone and ways of good society. No one knew better than he the value of such friendships as she had made, no one knew better that, in all ranks of society, out of sight is apt to be synonymous with out of mind. When Lady Barnstaple asked who was going to present Chris next year, and hinted that she would be willing to bring her out with her own daughter, he understood that half promises of that kind were not to be counted upon.
 These things he reflected on while sitting at the Duchess of Islay's luncheon-table, and saying the neat and clever things which he