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When they were seated, and the waiter had handed them each a menu card, Macfarren observed that Marian was deeply puzzled by hers.

"What may this mean?" she asked. "It is not English, nor French, nor Latin, although it doth somewhat resemble all three. Or is it," she asked, archly, "a madrigal writ in my honor?"

"No," said Macfarren, smiling; "although, if one could write at all, one might be inspired by such a theme."

It was an old, old compliment, but it was evidently new to Marian, who smiled, and said, "Thou hast a dainty wit."

Macfarren concluded not to trouble her about the menu, as she probably knew nothing about it: so he beckoned to the waiter, and said, "Turtle-soup for both." The waiter vanished.

Marian had not ceased to gaze about her with an air of surprised admiration.

"Never saw I so fine an hostelry before," said she. "Art thou not deceiving me, and is not this the house of some feudal prince?"

"Indeed it is not," replied Macfarren, earnestly. "It is nothing but an inn, I assure you."