“Is a fellow of considerable talent,” sneered Lethal,—­“but has enemies, who may have planned a duke.”

Adonais coughed in his cravat, and hinted,—­“How would it do to call him ’Barnum Dalton’?”

Adonais appeared shocked at himself, and swallowed a minim of wine to cleanse his vocal apparatus from the stain of so coarse an illustration.

“Do you hear those creatures?” whispered Dalton.  “They are arranging scandalous paragraphs for the ‘Illustration.’”

A moment after, he was gone.  I spoke to Lethal and Adonais.

“Gentlemen, you are in error about the picture and the Duke; they are as they now appear;—­the one, an excellent copy, purchased as an original,—­ no uncommon mistake; the other, a genuine highness.  How does he strike you?”

Lethal cast his eyes around to see who listened.

“The person,” said he, “who is announced here to-night as an English duke seemed to me, of all men I could select, least like one.”

“Pray, what is your ideal of an English duke, Mr. Lethal?” asked Adonais, with the air of a connoisseur, sure of himself, but hating to offend.

“A plain, solid person, well dressed, but simple; mutton-chop whiskers; and the manners of a—­a——­”

“Bear!” said a soft female voice.

“Precisely,—­the manners of a bear; a kind of gentlemanly bear, perhaps,—­ but still, ursine and heavy; while this person, who seems to have walked out of ----- or a novel, affects me, by his ways and appearance, like a-- a—­h’m”——­

“Gambler!” said the same female voice, in a conclusive tone.

There was a general soft laugh.  Everybody was pleased.  All admired, hated, and envied the Duke.  It was settled beyond a doubt that he was an impostor,—­and that the Denslows were either grossly taken in, or were “selling” their friends.  In either case, it was shocking and delightful.

“The fun of the thing,” continued Lethal, raising his voice a little, “is, that the painter who got up the old picture must have been as much an admirer of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow as—­his—­Highness; for, in touching in the queen, he has unconsciously made it a portrait.”

The blow was final.  I moved away, grieved and mortified to the soul, cursing the intrusion of the mysterious personage whose insolent superiority had overthrown the hopes of my friends.

At the door of the gallery I met G——­, the painter, just returned from London.  I drew him with me into the inner gallery, to make a thorough examination of the picture.  I called his attention to the wonderful resemblance of the queen to Honoria.  He did not see it; we looked together, and I began to think that it might have been a delusion.  I told the Duke’s story of the picture to G——.  He examined the canvas, tested the layers of color, and pronounced the work genuine and of immense value.  We looked again and again at the queen’s head, viewing it in every light.  The resemblance to Honoria had disappeared; nor was the demon any longer a figure of the Duke’s valet.