“You do not mean to tell me, Basil, that you are tired of ladies—­young ladies?”

“My dear colonel,” said the young man, quietly, “I am very sorry to tell you that I find one chignon very much the same as another.”

Colonel Mostyn sighed deeply.  What Mentor could make anything out of such a Telemachus?  He resigned himself, thankful that what he called one civilized taste remained—­Basil enjoyed the opera.

“I would really sooner see him fall in love with an opera dancer than remain what he is,” thought the man of the world.

One evening they went to the opera.  It was “Lucretia Borgia,” and, as usual, Basil Carruthers saw nothing but the stage.  In vain did the unwearied colonel call his attention to Lady Evelyn Hope, the lovely blonde; the fascinating Spanish Countess Rosella; to the twin sisters, the Ladies Isabel and Marie Duncan—­he looked at them without interest.

“I wonder,” thought the colonel to himself, “if the woman be living who could touch that cold, icy heart!”

The opera was nearly over when he saw Basil looking intently at the occupants of a box on the grand tier.  He even raised his glass, and sat for some minutes oblivious of everything and everyone except one central figure.  Very quietly and without attracting Basil’s attention, Colonel Mostyn raised his glass and looked at the box.  His gaze was steadfast for some minutes, then he gave utterance to a prolonged sigh.

“That will do,” he said to himself.

Like the diplomatist that he was, Colonel Mostyn said never a word, but when the act was ended, he turned to Basil.

“I see a lady, an old friend of mine, and I am going to spend a few minutes with her.”

He went to the box, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Basil never removed his glass.  When he returned to his own seat, the heir of Ulverston said, somewhat eagerly: 

“Who is that lady, colonel, with whom you have been speaking?”

“My dear boy,” he replied, “one chignon is just like another; which do you mean?”

“There is no chignon in this case.  I mean the lady with whom you have been speaking.”

“That is Lady Amelie Lisle,” he replied, briefly.

“Amelie Lisle!” repeated Basil; “but who is she?”

“If you wish to know her pedigree, you must consult Burke’s Peerage.  I can only remember that she is the daughter of Lord Grayson, who married a French duchess, and rumor says she is the loveliest and most accomplished woman in England.”

“Is she married?” was the next question.

“Yes; she married Lord Lisle, and rumor, always busy with beautiful women, says again that she is not too happy.  Do you know Lord Lisle?”

“No; I do not remember having ever seen him.”

“When you do, you will realize what it is for a man to be all animal.  He eats well, sleeps well, drinks well; he rides out a great deal in the fresh air; he is tall and portly, never, perhaps, read a book through in his life, good humored, generous in his way, but obstinate as a—­well, as a woman.”