Among the very few traits of amiability that Major Keene had ever displayed, were the sacrifices of personal convenience he would make for Harry Molyneux. He had given up a good many engagements to see his comrade through that especial hour; and, if the day had left any available geniality in him, it was sure to come out then. Upon this occasion, however, he was remarkably silent, and answered several times at random as if his thoughts were roving elsewhere: they were not unpleasant ones, apparently, for he smiled twice or thrice to himself, much less icily than usual. At last he spoke abruptly, after a long pause--Miss Tresilyan's name had not once been mentioned--"Hal, you know that old hackneyed phrase, about 'a woman to die for?' I think we have seen one to-day who is worth living for; which is saying a good deal more." "You like her, then?" Molyneux asked. "Yes--I--like--her." The words came out as if each one had been weighed to a grain; and his lip put on that curious smile once more. Harry did not feel quite satisfied. He would have preferred hearing more, and inferring less; but acting upon his invariable rose-colored principle, he would not admit any disagreeable surmises, and went to bed under the impression that "it was all right," and that Royston was in a fair way toward being repaid for the sacrifices he had made to friendship. CHAPTER VII. The Saturday night is waning, but Molyneux shows no signs of moving yet from Keene's apartments. He has been a model of prudence though so far, as to his drinks, and, in good truth, their companion is not amusing, or instructive, or convivial enough, to tempt or to excuse transgression.