“Bring me a stiff brandy-and-soda, waiter, and mind it _is_ stiff,” continues Mr. Trevor, as he throws himself wearily into a chair. The soda with its stiff complement of brandy arrives. It is mixed carefully by the waiter, and handed to the sad-hearted man. He drinks it eagerly. He has not a strong head, and knows that he cannot take much, but he feels that oblivion must in this instance be sought, if possible, no matter how, so long as it is attained. The brandy, in a measure, has the desired effect. He feels it perforating through his body and mounting to his brain. Things don’t look quite so gloomy to him now, and the loneliness of his position is less acutely felt. Two men are talking to each other close by him. He knows one of them. It is Sir Ralph Vereton, and he holds in his hand a copy of the June number of the _Free Review_. “It is a wonderful article for a boy to write, and an Eton boy, too,” he hears the baronet exclaiming. “Have you read it, Critchley?” “Well, no, I can’t say that I have, but I will, old chap, when I get home. I’m afraid I haven’t time to just now.” “What’s that, Vereton?” inquires Mr. Trevor, leaning forward in his chair, “anything particularly clever?” “Hulloa, Trevor! you there? Didn’t see you, old man. What! you haven’t read an Eton boy’s ‘Essay on Woman’s Position’? Every one is talking about it. It’s deuced clever and original, whatever one may think of the opinions, and is clearly written by a lad who will make his mark in the world.” “Let’s have a look at it, Vereton, if you don’t want it, there’s a good chap. I want something to read,” exclaims Mr. Trevor eagerly, reaching out his hand for the periodical, which the baronet passes to him good-naturedly. It is open at the page of honour, the first page in the book, and as Mr. Trevor scans the heading he reads it as follows: “Woman’s Position in this World. By Hector D’Estrange, an Eton boy.” He starts reading it, languidly at first, as if the remarks of a boy on such a subject cannot possibly be worth reading, but he is soon absorbed in the article, and never budges in his chair until he has read it through and through. And there are some parts to which he turns again and again, as though he would burn their truths into his brain, and keep them there never to be forgotten. One in especial rivets his attention, so much so that he commits it to memory.