“You can’t buy Valdez,” I told him, “not in the sense that you mean. He’ll sell himself, body and soul, for money—to you, or me, or Nina, or all of us, or anybody else. But he won’t sell Lucinda. He sells himself for money, but it’s because of her that he must have the money—to dazzle her, to cut a figure in her eyes, to get her back to him. He used her to tempt you with, to make you shell out—just as he did, in another way, with Nina. But he knew he was safe; he knew he’d never have to deliver what he was pretending to sell. She’s not only the one woman to him, she’s the one idea in his head, the one stake he always plays for. He’d sell his soul for her, but he wouldn’t sell her in return for all you have. You sit here, balancing her against this and that—now against God, now against Mammon! He doesn’t set either of them for a moment in the scales against her.” If what I said sharpened his perception, it blunted his scruples. The idea of Valdez’s passion was a spur to his own. “Then it’s man against man,” he said in a sullen, dogged voice. “If I find I can’t buy her, I’ll take her.” “You can try. If she lets you, she’s a changed woman. That’s all I can say. I need hardly add that I shall not offer you my assistance. Why, hang it, man, if she’s to be got, why shouldn’t I have a shot at her myself?” He gave a short gruff laugh. “I don’t quite associate the idea with you, but of course you’d be within your rights, as far as I’m concerned.” I laughed too. “There’s fair warning to you, then! And no bad blood, I hope? Also, perhaps, enough debate on what is, after all, rather a delicate subject—a lady’s honor—as some scrupulous people might remind us. By way of apology to the proprieties, I’ll just add that in my private opinion we should neither of us have the least chance of success. She may not be Valdez’s any more—as to that I express no opinion, though I have one—but I don’t believe she’ll be any one else’s.” “What makes you say that?” he grumbled out surlily. “She herself makes me say it; she herself and what I know about her. And, considering your condition, it seems common kindness to tell you my view, for what it’s worth. Now, my friend, thanks for your dinner, and—good-night!” “Are you staying here—in Paris—much longer?” “I shall be for a week—possibly a fortnight—I expect.” “Then good-by as well as good-night; I shall go back to-morrow.” “To Villa San Carlo?” “No, I don’t know where I shall go. It depends.” “To where you can test the value of my view, perhaps?” He had now risen, and I walked across to him, holding out my hand. He took it, with another gruff laugh. “This sort of thing plays hell with a man; but there’s no need for us to quarrel, Julius?” “Not at present, at all events. And it looks as if you had a big enough quarrel on your hands already.”