perfect a being as he deemed her. So, he could not help breaking out again in new fury, when Bertie Lyon explained himself. It did not matter so much, breaking out before Lyon. Men could keep each other’s secrets. He flung his pipe aside with a rough word, and began to pace the room. “There is more of devil than woman in her,” he said. “There always was. I’d give a few years of my life,” clenching his hand, “to be sure that she would find her match some day.” “I should think you would be match enough for her,” remarked Lyon, astutely. “But what has she done to make _you_ so savage? When were _you_ in love with a woman?” “Never!” bitterly. “I was in love with her, and she never belonged to the race, not even at fifteen years old. I was in love with her, and she has been the ruin of me.” “I should scarcely have thought it,” answered Lyon. “You are a pretty respectable wreck, for your age.” The young man was not prone to heroics himself, and not seeing his friend indulge in them often, he did not regard them with enthusiasm. This complacency checked Anstruthers. What a frantic fool he was, to let such a trifle upset his boasted cynicism? He flung out another short laugh of defiant self-ridicule. He came back to his chair as abruptly as he had left it. “Bah!” he said. “So I am. You are a wise boy, Lyon, and I am glad you stopped me. I thought I had lived down all this sort of nonsense, but--but I have seen that girl wear pansies before. Heart’s-ease, by Jove! And it gave me a twinge to think of it. Keep that one in the glass over there; keep it as long as you choose, my boy. It will last as long as your fancy for her does, I wager. Women of the Crespigny stamp don’t wear well. Here, hand me that bottle--Or stay! I’ll ring for my man, and we will have some brandy and soda, to cool our heated fancies. We are too young to stay up so late; too young and innocent! We ought to have gone to bed long ago, like good boys.” CHAPTER IV. A LUNCH PARTY.