arrived from Paris. Turned all the people's
heads there. Pay her a tremendous salary."

"I am Sir William Long," the baronet said,
quietly, "and should be very much obliged if
you would tell me anything definite about this
Madame Ernestine. I am very curious, indeed,
to learn."

The manager indulged in a subdued—a very
subdued—whistle. He glanced at the baronet's
face, and saw that it wore an expression of
earnest curiosity.

"Well, she ain't young, Sir William," he
made answer.

"If she is the person I mean, she must be
forty years of age, or thereabouts."

"You may bet your money on that horse, Sir
William," acquiesced the manager. "Hope
you'll excuse my familiarity, but I've always
found the swells most affable. His Grace the
Duke of Darbyshire comes here twice a week,
thanks to my friend Tom Tuttleshell. Invaluable
fellow, Tom. His grace wanted to drive his
four-in-hand over the artificial lake, but I was
obliged to refuse him, for fear of accidents, and
the newspapers, and that sort of thing. Ah!
you've no idea what a hard life mine is, and
what a manager has to put up with. Those
licensing magistrates are enough to worry one
into the grave. Only think. That stupid old
Serjeant Timberlake, the chairman, was nearly
giving a casting vote against our shop, on the
ground that skating was immoral, and that
coloured lamps led to drinking."

"Believe in my sympathy, Mr. M'Variety;
but this Madame Ernestine, now. You say that
she is not young?"

"She's no chicken, and that's a fact; but
this is, of course, entre nous. Ladies in her
profession are never supposed to grow old."

"Is she handsome?"

"Makes up uncommonly well at night;
doesn't spare the 'slap,' you know, the red and
white," responded Mr. M'Variety, diplomatically.

"Can you tell me anything more about her?
I have a particular object in inquiring, far beyond
any impertinent curiosity."

"All communications strictly confidential,
eh? Well, I don't mind telling you, Sir
William, though it's against my rules. My
standing orders to my stage-door keeper, when
any questions are asked him by parties—and
some have been asked by the very first in the
land—about the ladies and gentlemen of the
company, is to tell 'em to find out, and, if they
ain't satisfied with that, to write to Notes and
Queries. That generally satisfies the Paul
Prys, and you don't know how we're bothered
with 'em. Now, to tell you the honest truth
about Madame Ernestine, she's about the most
mysterious party I ever knew, and I have known
a few mysterious parties in my time, Sir William."

"I have no doubt of it, Mr. M'Variety; pray
proceed."

"I can't make out whether she's a Frenchwoman
or an Englishwoman. She speaks one
language as well as the other. She swears like
a trooper, and drinks like a fish, which ain't very
uncommon in the horse-riding profession; but
then she gives herself all sorts of fine-lady airs,
and treats you as if you were a door-mat. She
says she was married to a tremendous swell, an
Englishman, who is dead, and that she is a lady
in lier own right. My treasurer, Van Post,
won't believe it, and you'd find it rather hard to
meet with a sharper customer than Billy Van
Post. 'If she's a lady,' says he, 'why don't
she go to her relations?"

"Is she talented?"

"Clever as Old Scratch, to whom, I think,
she's first cousin. But, to tell you the honest
truth, Sir William, she's too old for the kickout
business. At her time of life, the swells
don't care about seeing her jump through the
hoops. It's time for her to cover up her ankles,
Sir William. Tom Tuttleshell told her so, and
she offered to knock him down for it; but we
got her to listen to reason at last. You see,
Tom found her out for me in Paris, and I pay
her a thumping salary."

"But does it pay you to do so?"

"That's just it, Sir William. You'd hardly
credit it, but it does pay tremendously. That
ingenious fellow, Tom Tuttleshell, put me up to
the dodge of the high school of horsemanship
which he had seen at Franconi's. It's as easy as
lying," pursued the candid Mr. M'Variety,
"and it ain't far off from lying, anyway."

"What may this novel invention be?"

"Just this: You've got a lady rider that's
clever—first-rate, mind, but passy. Well, you
just put her into a riding-habit and a man's hat,
and you give her a trained horse and a side-
saddle, and she makes him go through all kind
of capers to slow music, and the audience they
go half wild with excitement. It's a new thing,
Sir William, and tickles 'em. The British public
are very capricious, and have got tired of
the Three Graces on one horse, and the Swiss
Shepherdess on her milk-white steed, and such
like."

"And the high-school horse?"

"Perfection. When Tom first dug out
Madame Ernestine in Paris, she was very low
down in the world, going round the fairs, I have
heard say, as a spotted girl, or a mermaid, or a
giantess, or something not worth five-and-twenty
bob a week, at all events. She was quite broken,
in fact, and good for nothing but to make play
with the brandy-bottle. Well, Tom saw there
was something in her, and that she was exactly
the kind of party for the high-school business,
and he managed to pick up a horse from an
Italian fellow that kept a waxwork show—Venti
something his name was; and that horse and the
madame have turned me in a pretty penny since
I opened. I wish everything else in the gardens
had turned out as profitably," M'Variety added,
with a half-sigh.

"And the madame, as you call her, is a
success?"

"Draws tremendously. As I warned you,
she's no great shakes as to youth or good looks;
but for pluck, action, and general 'go,' that