The widow murmured acquiescence, and stole a look at the prosaic figure of the latter gentleman which was full of scornful curiosity. With some diffidence she invited the admiral to stay to supper, and was obviously delighted when he accepted. In the character of admiral Mr. Stiles enjoyed himself amazingly, his one regret being that no discriminating theatrical manager was present to witness his performance. His dignity increased as the evening wore on, and from good-natured patronage of the unfortunate Burton he progressed gradually until he was shouting at him. Once, when he had occasion to ask Mr. Burton if he intended to contradict him, his appearance was so terrible that his hostess turned pale and trembled with excitement. Mr. Burton adopted the air for his own use as soon as they were clear of Mrs. Dutton’s doorstep, and in good round terms demanded of Mr. Stiles what he meant by it. “It was a difficult part to play, George,” responded his friend. “We ought to have rehearsed it a bit. I did the best I could.” “Best you could?” stormed Mr. Burton. “Telling lies and ordering me about?” “I had to play the part without any preparation, George,” said the other, firmly. “You got yourself into the difficulty by saying that I was the admiral in the first place. I’ll do better next time we go.” Mr. Burton, with a nasty scowl, said that there was not going to be any next time, but Mr. Stiles smiled as one having superior information. Deaf first to hints and then to requests to seek his pleasure elsewhere, he stayed on, and Mr. Burton was soon brought to realise the difficulties which beset the path of the untruthful. The very next visit introduced a fresh complication, it being evident to the most indifferent spectator that Mr. Stiles and the widow were getting on very friendly terms. Glances of unmistakable tenderness passed between them, and on the occasion of the third visit Mr. Burton sat an amazed and scandalised spectator of a flirtation of the most pronounced description. A despairing attempt on his part to lead the conversation into safer and, to his mind, more becoming channels only increased his discomfiture. Neither of them took any notice of it, and a minute later Mr. Stiles called the widow a “saucy little baggage,” and said that she reminded him of the Duchess of Marford. [Illustration] “I _used_ to think she was the most charming woman in England,” he said, meaningly. Mrs. Dutton simpered and looked down; Mr. Stiles moved his chair a little closer to her, and then glanced thoughtfully at his friend. “Burton,” he said. “Sir,” snapped the other. “Run back and fetch my pipe for me,” said Mr. Stiles. “I left it on the mantelpiece.” Mr. Burton hesitated, and, the widow happening to look away, shook his fist at his superior officer. “Look sharp,” said Mr. Stiles, in a peremptory voice. “I’m very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Burton, whose wits were being sharpened by misfortune, “but I broke it.”