“Leave Pondy and go on!” was Kenneth’s stern reply; and Hal went on: “You remember Pondy toasted Constance Elliott as the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and you were so mad to hear her name from his lips that you smashed a cut-glass tumbler. Well, Pondy said she was a great heiress, or would be if some mines panned out as they were likely to do. About that time I was thinking of heiresses, for I wanted money badly,—had a lot of debts on hand. Kitty Haynes was in my mind the prettiest girl I’d ever met, but I wanted to see this Connie. I went abroad, you know; heard where she was and found her. I’d got into a kind of scrape in Paris and seen my name rather unpleasantly conspicuous in the newspapers, and just for a lark I thought I’d change it for a while. Our family name years ago was _Meurice_, and my second name Harold, so I put the two together and was _Harold Meurice_, from New York, which had a more aristocratic sound than plain Harry Morris, Millville, smelling of factories and things. I needn’t tell you that I look well and talk well.” “The devil is not your equal,” Kenneth interposed, and Hal continued, with the most imperturbable good humor. “I don’t believe he is when I lay myself out, as I did with Connie. I made love to her for six weeks, and found her like Barkis,—’willin’! There, there! Keep that pistol down. I did not mean any disrespect. She was an innocent, simple-hearted girl, who had been in a convent school so long that she knew nothing of the world, certainly not of men like me, and she believed every word I said. Her aunt was a regular she-dragon, who disliked and distrusted me, and did her best to keep her niece from seeing me alone, and encouraged her marrying a measly count, whom she afterwards took herself. At last I received a telegram from Tom Haynes, saying he and Kitty were in Paris, and wanted me to join them. By this time I was pretty far gone, and felt that I could not give Connie up. There was a walk we had once taken out towards Lauterbrunnen, and we took it that last afternoon of my stay in Interlaken. I told her I was going away the next morning, but should soon come back, and in the meantime I wanted to bind her to me, so that her meddling aunt could not separate us, or persuade her to take the count. I think the devil put the plan into my head; he has helped me a good many times.”