"Nevertheless, the resemblance between you, both in face and figure, is positively astounding! With the sole exception that he wears hair upon his face, and is of a ruddy complexion, while you are pale, and smooth smooth-cheeked as as a boy—" "Or yourself!" said I. "Ah—exactly!" he answered, and passed his fingers across his chin tentatively, and fell again to staring lazily up into the sky. "Do you happen to know anything about that most remarkable species of the 'genus homo' calling themselves 'Bucks,' or 'Corinthians'?" he inquired, after a while. "Very little," said I, "and that, only by hearsay." "Well, up to six months ago, I was one of them, Mr. Vibart, until Fortune, and I think now, wisely, decreed it otherwise." And herewith, lying upon his back, looking up through the quivering green of leaves, he told mad tales of a reckless Prince, of the placid Brummel, of the "Dashing" Vibart, the brilliant Sheridan, of Fox, and Grattan, and many others, whose names are now a byword one way or the other. He recounted a story of wild prodigality, of drunken midnight orgies, of days and nights over the cards, of wine, women, and horses. But, lastly and very reverently, he spoke of a woman, of her love, and faith, and deathless trust. "Of course," he ended, "I might have starved very comfortably, and much quicker, in London, but when my time comes, I prefer to do my dying beneath some green hedge, or in the shelter of some friendly rick, with the cool, clean wind upon my face. Besides— She loved the country." "Then there are some women who can't be bought?" said I, looking at his glistening eyes. "Mr. Vibart," said he, "so far as I know, there are two—the Lady Helen Dunstan and the 'Glorious' Sefton." "The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?" said I. "And—the Lady Helen Dunstan," he repeated. "Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?" "I have had the honor of dancing with her frequently," he answered. "And is she so beautiful as they say?" "She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed, deep-eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped; though, sir, for my own part, I prefer less fire and ice—and more gentle beauty." "As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?" said I. "Exactly!" nodded Mr. Beverley. "Referring to the Lady Sophia Sefton," I pursued, "she is a reigning toast, I believe?" "Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his Royal Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had the temerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival; no one but 'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!" "A most fortunate lady!" said I. "Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr. Vibart, I object to your tone; the noble Sefton's virtue is proud and high, and above even the breath of suspicion." "And yet my cousin would seem to be no laggard in love, and as to the Prince—his glance is contamination to a woman."