Paris. But that endowment was his brother Robert's suggestion. Sir Peter's calls at the Christie Galleries ceased when Robert married beautiful Valentine Germain, the actress. Perhaps half of the cruel things Sir Peter said of her were true. But the quarrel was irreparable; the brothers never met afterward.

Robert Oglebay was a painter of distinction, if not of genius. His few finished pictures enriched the world. His impulses were noble, but they were impulses only; the will to complete the undertaken task was lacking. For patient work he substituted high talk of Art in the studios of his friends. The gay little suppers in their own rooms were famous; nine at table, mostly men, entranced by Valentine's beauty and her wit. Charming were their afternoons among the curio shops, and their return, laden with loot too precious to wait over night for delivery. Glorious were their holidays in Paris and Vienna; wonderful nights in Venice! Always together! To their sudden migration to Egypt, whence he returned with a portfolio of exciting promise. Alas, the slender fulfilment! for then was the time for work,—the sobering thought of Baby Phyllis.

But to Valentine and Robert Oglebay, Baby Phyllis soon meant a new frolic. Nurse Farquharson's were the competent hands. Their life went on unchanged.

At five, Baby Phyllis, in her white nightie, her blue eyes shining, and her curls crowned with roses, danced among the wine-glasses at her mother's birthday party, and enraptured the guests by singing, in various keys, the song with which beautiful Valentine herself had captivated London,—"If I could wear trousers, I know what I should do." If you knew your way about town in the early eighties, you may remember the song. The encore was uproarious: three times Baby Phyllis had to lift her little leg and strike the match on her nightie. They drank her health standing, as she disappeared, smiling at them over Nurse Farquharson's shoulder.

Upstairs, having cuddled Phyllis in bed, Valentine caught the expression on the nurse's face. She put her arms around Farquharson appealingly.

"Don't be cross with me on my birthday," she pleaded.

Farquharson patted the pretty upraised hands, glittering with diamonds.

"You mustn't look cross at my mamma, Farkson," cooed Baby Phyllis.

Careless, happy days and sparkling nights! Robert and Valentine were always together, their honeymoon endless; in Paris, in Buda-Pesth, in Rome, in Constantinople, in 

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