“Why, to be sure, Hector, my affairs are always discreditable. But the scandal being well-nigh a week old begins to grow stale, and the Marquise will be out o’ the public eye already, poor soul, unless she hath contrived some scheme to revive it, and she’s a clever creature, on my soul she is—ah, and that reminds me! What the deuce rhymes with ‘soul,’ Hector? There’s roll and poll and dole and goal and——” “Hoot-toot, man!” exclaimed MacLean. “The de’il awa’ wi’ y’r rhymes!” “With all my heart, Hector, for they’re bad enough, I fear,” sighed Sir John. “Sic sinfu’ repoorts as I’ve been hearin’ o’ ye, John!” exclaimed MacLean, striding up and down the room again. “Sic a gallimaufry o’ waefu’ wickedness, sic lug-tingling tales.... O man, John, y’r reputation fair stinks!” “It does, Hector!” nodded Sir John placidly. “Indeed, ’tis a reputation I find something hard to maintain and live up to—though I do my best——” “Your best, whateffer? Aye, wi’ your gamblin’, your duellin’ an’ your fine French hussies—like this Marquise—a feckless body and shameless——” “And therefore fashionable, Hector! Remember, this is Paris!” “Parus!” snorted MacLean; “O Parus! Edinb’ro’s a sinfu’ town, forbye it hath its savin’ graces. Lon’non’s waur, but—Parus! Man, I’m no’ an archangel, y’ ken, but—Parus! And this brings me back tae yoursel’, John.” “And pray what have you heard concerning me particularly, Hector? Come, what are my latest sins? Whose wife have I lured from sorrowing spouse? What young innocent is my latest victim? What hopeful youth have I ruined at the gaming-table?... and in heaven’s name—smile, man!” “How, smile is it, and my heart waefu’ for ye, lad? Repoort speaks ye a very deevil, John.” “Aye, but even the devil is never so black as he is painted, Hector!” “Ha, will ye be for tellin’ me repoort hath lied, John?” “Let us rather say it hath not spoke truth.” “Whaur’s the differ, lad?” “Report, Hector, doth trumpet me forth a very monster of politely-vicious depravity. I am Sin manifest, perambulating Iniquity. Do I sit me down to the gaming-table I am bound to ruin some poor wretch, do I but kiss a woman’s finger-tips she is forthwith a mark for every scandalous tongue. My sins, Hector, be all superlative and very pertinaciously come home to roost. Egad, I befoul my own nest with a persistency that amazes me! But then, it seems some are born to iniquity, some achieve iniquity, and some have iniquity thrust upon ’em——” “How so, John lad, what d’ye mean?” “That I have an enemy—nay two, rather! The one being myself—and he is bad enough o’ conscience—but the other—ah, Hector, this other one is more implacable, more unrelenting and a thousand times more merciless!” “Who is he, lad, a God’s name?” “’Tis no he,” sighed Sir John. “Aha!” exclaimed Sir Hector, coming to an abrupt stand; “you mean—her?”