Desvoeux had risen from the table, and was moving towards the billiard-room. 'Her name,' he said, stopping in the act of lighting a cigar, 'is that of the rest of her sex--frailty.' 'Desvoeux is hard hit this time,' observed one of a little knot who lingered behind the rest over their wine; 'he really loved her.' 'Fiddlededee!' said another. 'Desvoeux love her, indeed!' 'He will have to drop all that now,' observed a third; 'Sutton would wring his neck for him or pitch him out of the window, if he as much as dared look at her!' The fact, however, was that, conceal it as he would, Desvoeux was hard hit. His usual expedient of buying a handsome wedding present and writing the lady some poetry quite broke down. Maud's bright eyes and glowing cheeks, her beautiful upper lip--now full of pretty scorn, now melting into a smile that was sweetness itself--haunted him in his dreams. He lit his pipe, he raged about the room, he denounced the perfidy of womankind, he read all the most horrible passages in all the worst French novels in his possession, he quoted all the fiercest cynicism of Chamfort and Rochefoucauld in vain; there was Maud, enthroned unquestioned mistress of his heart, and it was labour lost to endeavour to displace her. In course of time Desvoeux lashed himself into a highly uncomfortable state of mind and became perfectly convinced that Maud had treated him most cruelly. Accordingly, when next they met, his appearance was suggestive of a Byronic gloom of the very deepest dye; his handkerchief was tied with the negligence which spoke of shattered hopes, and his general demeanour was that of a man for whom the world was over. Maud was really in consternation at her friend's metamorphosis and felt herself growing inconveniently shy. She was conscious of an instinctive apprehension that Desvoeux was going to bring about a scene. His face of martyrdom was a study in the completeness of its woe. 'You expect me to wish you joy,' he said, 'and so I do. May all bright things attend you wherever you go, and wherever you are! The news of your engagement surprised and hurt me, of course.' 'Surprised and hurt you, Mr. Desvoeux!' cried Maud, with increased alarm, 'I can't think why it should do that or why you should look so very odd and--untidy.' 'Cannot you?' cried the other, stalking about the room and fanning the flame of his excitement; 'I suppose not; you women are all so heartless.' 'No, we are not,' said Maud; 'and if we were, I do not see that you, of all people in the world, have any right to complain. Come now, tell me what is the matter. Has the Agent been scolding you?' 'The Agent!' cried Desvoeux, in tones of the profoundest disgust; 'you little traitress, don't you know as well as possible that there is only one thing in the world that could really hurt me, and that you have done it?' 'I!' exclaimed Maud, in horror. 'I'm sure I am very sorry. You must try and forget me.'