“You are going to hear, my Trojans! And no flam! Gentlemen, charge your glasses! I’ve the honour to inform you that our old friend and tiptopper, Arthur Vaughan, otherwise the Counsellor, has got himself regularly put up, knocked down, and sold to as pretty a piece of the feminine as you’ll see in a twelvemonth! Prettiest in Bristol, ’pon honour,” with feeling, “be the other who she may! Regular case of—” and in irresistibly comic accents, with his head and glass alike tilted, he drolled, “_There first for thee my passion grew_, _Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen;_ _Thou wast the daughter of my tu_- _tor, law professor at the U_- _niversity of Göttingen!_ ’Niversity of Göttingen! Don’t laugh, gentlemen! It’s so! He’s entered on the waybill, book through to matrimony, and”—the Honourable Bob was undoubtedly a little tipsy—“and it only remains for us to give him a good send-off. So charge your glasses, and——” Brereton laid his hand on his arm. He was sober and he did not like the look on Vaughan’s disgusted face. “One moment, Flixton,” he said; “is this true, Mr. Vaughan?” Vaughan’s brow was as black as thunder. He had never dreamt that, drunk or sober, Flixton would be guilty of such a breach of confidence. He hesitated. Then, “No!” he said. “It’s not true?” Codrington struck in. “You are not going to be married, old chap?” “No!” “But, man,” Flixton hiccoughed, “you told me so—or something like it—-only this morning.” “You either misunderstood me,” Vaughan answered, in a tone so distinct as to be menacing, “for you have said far more than I said. Or, if you prefer it, I’ve changed my mind. In either case it is my business! And I’ll trouble you to leave it alone!” “Oh, if you put it—that way, old chap?” “I do put it that way!” “And any way,” Brereton said, interposing hurriedly, “this is no time for marrying! I’ve told you boys before, and I tell you again——” And he plunged into a fresh argument on the old point. Two or three joined issue, grinning. And Vaughan, as soon as attention was diverted from him, slipped away. He was horribly disgusted, and sunk very low in his own eyes. He loathed what he had done. He had not, indeed, been false to the girl, for he had given her no promise. He had not denied her, for her name had not been mentioned. And he had not gone back on his resolution, for he had never formed one seriously. Yet in a degree he had done all these things. He had played a shabby part by himself and by the girl. He had been meanly ashamed of her. And though his conduct had followed the lines which he had marked out for himself, he hoped that he might never again feel so unhappy, and so poor a thing, as he felt as he walked the streets and cursed his discretion. Discretion! Cowardice was the right name for it. Because the girl, the most beautiful, pure, and gentle creature on whom his eyes had ever rested, was called Mary Smith, and taught in a school, he disavowed her and turned his back on her.