around these facts which he had to accept and to deal with. A touch of humanity is worth all the unhuman romance in the world. Humanity lay at the doctor's gate, sore distressed, sinking to something that was beyond distress. So, putting his fancies resolutely behind him, Doctor Levillier resolved to fight through that frail weapon, the lady of the feathers, the battle of Julian's will against the will--which he now fully and once for all recognized as malign--of the man he must still call Valentine. Valentine had said to Julian, at the Savoy, "If it came to a battle--Cuckoo Bright's will against mine!" The doctor had not heard those words. Yet, under the stars on the doorstep of Cuckoo's dwelling he, too, had spoken to the girl of a fight. Thus he had poured a great ardour into her heart. The three souls, Cuckoo's, Doctor Levillier's, Valentine's, were thus set in battle array. They understood what they faced, or at least that they faced warfare. Only Julian did not understand--yet. He was besotted by the spell of the one he called friend laid upon him, and by the vices in which he had been taught to wallow. His brain was clouded and his eyes were dim, as the brains and eyes of the _malades imaginaires_ who carry on the scheme of sin and sorrow in the world, and prolong by their deeds the long travail of their race. Julian did not understand. For now he seldom thought sincerely. Sincere thoughts and the incessant and violent acts of passion do not often dwell together. The progress of Julian towards degradation had now become so rapid that his many acquaintances talked of him openly as of one who had practically "gone under." Not that he had ever done any of those few things at which society, whose door is generally ajar, with Mrs. Grundy's large ear glued to the keyhole, resolutely shuts the door. He had not forged, or stolen a watch, or killed anybody, or married a grocer's widow, or anything of that kind. But he had thrown his life to the pleasures of the body, and made no secret of the fact. And the pleasures of the body, like eager rats, had gnawed away his power of self-control until he could resist nothing, no wish of the moment, no desire born illegitimately of passing excitement or the prompting of wine. So he committed many follies, and his follies had loud voices. They shrieked and shouted. And society heard their cries, held the door a little more ajar, and listened with that passion of attention which virtue accords to vice. But society, having heard a good deal, shook its head over Julian. He had acquired such a taste for low company that he ought to have been born a peer. Certainly, he had money. That made his errors chink rather pleasantly, and filled the bosoms of many mothers with an expansive charity towards him. Still, the general opinion was that he was sinking very low. In fact, the legend of Julian's shame was now written on his face in such legible and vital