To her, Wynne Rendall was a power in the land—a power which, with a little tact, might easily be diverted toward herself. Without being affected by prickings of conscience, she decided, if occasion offered, she would compromise herself with him, and step lightly from the wreckage of her virtue to spheres of extravagance hitherto unattainable. To the furtherance of this ignoble end, she pouted, smiled, and performed those various verbal and facial evolutions which, for a hundred centuries, have served to divert mankind from the straight and narrow path. Esme was one of those pouting darlings who look infinitely sad at the smallest word, with that quality of sadness which provokes thoughts of remedial kisses in the male mind. Eve produced her first pout at an understudy rehearsal taken by Wynne. “You know,” he had said, “you are very bad in this part.” Esme then pouted. “Well, aren’t you?” continued Wynne. Esme added four quick blinks to the pout very adroitly. That was all, but when Wynne passed through the stage door Esme and her pout were there—a vision to disturb dreams. Wynne smiled as he walked up the street. It was pleasant to reflect that by half a dozen words he could cause a pout to be produced of so enduring a nature. As an observer, he considered the elements which go to make a good pout. Undoubtedly Esme’s pout had been a good one. Her lips were of a sweet red, and moist with the dews of grief. With a good pout one saw ever such a little more of lips than one was accustomed to see. No man can think long of this subject without considering the possibilities thereof, and for the first time Wynne was consciously drawn to the idea that it must be a sweet enough task to kiss a pair of pretty lips. Further to this line of thought, he deemed that it might be pleasanter still to kiss a pair of pouting lips. And here his investigation stopped short in a sharp surprise that such considerations could find a place in his over-stocked brain. Clearly he must have changed in some important features. Was it a sign of age or youth? he asked himself. He became aware that his feet rang heartily upon the pavement, and when he filled his lungs with good air the life quickened in his veins. “It’s youth,” he said aloud—“youth!” To the astonishment of a passer-by he stretched out his arms luxuriously and laughed: “I’m young—young!” Then with a wave of self-pity: “Lord! I’ve worked hard!” III