"Anyway," said Camilla, "I don't see why everybody that knows her isn't mad about Ailsa Paige. She has _such_ high principles, such ideals, such wonderful aspirations--" She clasped her hands sentimentally: "At times, Phil, she seems too ethereal, scarcely of earth--and yet I breakfasted with her and she ate twice as much as I did. _How_ does she keep that glorious figure!" Plumpness was the bane and terror of Camilla's life. Her smooth, suave white skin was glossy and tight; distracting curves, entrancing contours characterised her now; but her full red lips fairly trembled as she gazed at her parents' portraits in her bedroom, for they had both been of a florid texture and full habit; and she had now long refused sugar and the comforts of sweetmeats dear to the palate of her age and sex. And mostly was this self-denial practised for the sake of a young and unobservant friend, one Stephen Craig, who had so far evinced no unusual inclination for her, or for anything except cigars and masculine society of his own age and condition. She managed to get Philip Berkley to talk about Stephen, which ingenuity soothed her. But Philip was becoming bored, and he presently escaped to retrace his steps up Broadway, up Fifth Avenue, and then west to the exceedingly modest lodgings whither fate and misfortune had wafted him. On the way he passed Colonel Arran's big double house with a sullen and sidelong scowl, and continued onward with a shrug. But he smiled no more to himself. Burgess was in the room, cross-legged on the floor, ironing out his master's best coat. "What the devil are you about," said Philip ungraciously. "Get up. I need what floor I've got to stand on." Burgess obediently laid the board and the coat on a trunk and continued ironing; and Philip scowled at him askance. "Why don't you enlist?" he said. "Every car-driver, stage-driver, hackman, and racing-tout can become major-generals if they yell loud enough." Burgess continued ironing, then stole a glance at his master. "Are you thinking of enlisting, sir?" "No; I can't pass the examination for lung power. By the way," he added, laughing, "I overlooked the impudence of your question, too. But now is your time, Burgess. If I wanted you I'd have to put up with your insolence, I suppose." "But you don't want me, sir." "Which restrains you," said Philip, laughing. "Oh, go on, my friend. Don't say 'sir' to me; it's a badge of servitude pasted onto the vernacular. Say 'Hi!' if you like." "Sir?" "Hell! I say don't behave like a servant to me." "I _am_ a servant, sir." "You're not mine." "Yes, sir, I am. Will you wear this coat this evening, sir?" "God knows," said the young fellow, sitting down and gazing about at the melancholy poverty of the place. . . . "Is there any of that corn whisky?" "No, sir." "Damn it, you said there was this morning!" "No, sir, I didn't." The man lied placidly; the master looked at him, then laughed.