said his servant, entering his dressing-room, one morning, where he was shaving, and singing—
"Que amor sus glorias venda."
"Voyons, Criquet," said the Marquis; "where does it come from, mon garçon, eh?"
"It comes from England," said Criquet, holding it up to the light, and compressing the sides, that he might get a peep into it.
"Give it me," said Don Querubin, laying down his razor, though but half shaved.
"Tenez," said Criquet, still endeavouring to penetrate the contents of the letter, "I see the words, 'beautiful girl.'"
"Comment? you see that?" said the Marquis, turning briskly round on his chair.
"'Beautiful girl,'" repeated Criquet slowly, "'her eyes are'—ah! I can't make out the colour of her eyes."
"Blue, Criquet!" cried Don Querubin, smacking his lips. "Blue, by my marquisate For doubtless she's an Englishwoman. But let us see; give me the letter, that we may ascertain what it's about."
"It's about a pretty girl," said Criquet; "that's clear."
"Nothing better, Criquet," said the Mar-
