“I have been having a chat with Moira, sir,” said O’Hagan, haughtily, rising as Repton entered. The muscles of Repton’s jaws stood out, lumpish. “We have decided,” continued the cool voice, “that your suit must be withdrawn! It is distasteful to Moira—and distasteful to me!” Repton’s face, in the dimness, showed a greyish white. He swallowed noisily—and took a step towards Captain O’Hagan. Moira clutched at the Captain’s arm. She did not fully realise what had happened. Only she knew that this strange man, who half fascinated and half frightened her, had precipitated a climax in her life; had, from no personal motive that she could fathom—unless antipathy from Repton and friendliness to a descendant of Bruce—brought her love affairs violently to a head. Resentment found place in her heart. Captain O’Hagan was a mere chance acquaintance. Yet—wondrous, expansively human O’Hagan!—she gladly sank her individuality in the overflowing lake of his own and was not philosopher enough to know the source of her contentment. Repton had been very attentive, had spent his money lavishly, but he had been more exacting than his position warranted. What a pity that Bruce was so poor! For the world (so Moira’s mother taught) was ruled by a gilded Providence with a rod of iron: a rod of iron tipped with a magical talisman—a bright new sovereign. Mr. Repton achieved speech. “Is it—true . . . what this . . . ruffian . . . says?” “I note that you call me a ruffian, sir,” said O’Hagan icily. Moira Cumberley was trembling. “I am—awfully sorry,” she answered, speaking with difficulty, “that this has come about. Don’t think I want to be bad friends, Mr. Repton. I want us to be friends always. But——” “She cannot entertain marriage with a man whose nose I shall pull in the morning!” concluded O’Hagan. “I have other plans for her future. Your card, sir—and you may go!” Is there another living could have framed such a speech?—another who could have carried such a situation in such a manner? I challenge you to produce him. Repton turned on his heel. Of words he was bereft again; action was impossible. ————— IV. AT FIG TREE COURT. I. Captain O’Hagan entered my rooms whilst I was at breakfast—hatless, as is his custom; debonair, as he cannot fail to be. His presence has the curious effect of changing relative values. His individuality absorbs: one can no longer describe the scene: the scene is Captain O’Hagan. As he lounges upon the blue Chesterfield, with that odd pose of the hip which suggests that a rapier swings there, I often think that had he flourished contemporaneously with Velasquez he had surely inspired the artist to a supreme achievement. “Portrait of the Chevalier Bernard O’Hagan,” must have been counted the Spanish master’s _chef d’œuvre_. “My dear Raymond, are you acquainted with a person of the name of Repton?”