“At such times,” my mendacious friend has informed me, “to lie becomes a virtue. Dillon distrusted his wife’s old admirer—whose name he had quixotically, though fortunately, avoided learning. Therefore, preparatory to peace, the anonymous gentleman had to be whitewashed. His whitewashing accomplished, next, in order to insure Dillon’s silence respecting his history, he had to be buried for ever. “I buried him in the eternal snows, Raymond. What more appropriate tomb for the rejected lover?” EXPLOIT THE FIFTH. HE DEALS WITH DON JUAN. EXPLOIT THE FIFTH. HE DEALS WITH DON JUAN. I. HAVERLEY OF THE GREYS. My friend Captain O’Hagan is a man fatally easy to misjudge; a man monstrously difficult to appreciate. Arraign him before a bar of his peers, and no two findings would march in step, no two voices be in unison. If we except the critic of the _Tailor and Cutter_, I doubt, indeed, if there be a man in London who perceives the exquisite distinction of O’Hagan’s dress. His mode of going hatless is dubbed affectation; his purple-lined cloak an ostentatious extravagance. But some there are who instinctively detect O’Hagan’s sterling qualities; some (as myself) achieve to this knowledge; and some have it thrust upon them. I recall an illustrative incident: O’Hagan and I were at one of those pleasant afternoon functions where the caller surreptitiously, but constantly, glances at his timepiece in order to learn if a sufficient interval has elapsed since his arrival to admit of his departure. You have been, no doubt? O’Hagan rarely goes; but a Miss Pamela Crichton was present on this occasion—and, somehow, O’Hagan and I are frequently meeting this charming girl at all sorts of odd places—quite by accident, oh, quite by accident. “I am proud of the success which Pamela has achieved,” my friend whispered to me, “since I took her up.” (She composes). “But I do not approve of her accepting these social invitations. She is merely providing the hostess with a gratuitous entertainment.” This view of the matter, from O’Hagan, surprised me. But later, the hostess said: “_Dear_ Miss Crichton, you will play us that last charming piece of yours, _won’t_ you!” Mrs. Pointzby-North’s request was sweetly proffered, but it was a sweetness akin to that with which, addressing a valued butler, she might have said: “_Milton_, you will see that the bull-dogs are not permitted to fight in the drawing-room in future, _won’t_ you!” O’Hagan did not object to the tone of patronage, however. (“Mrs. Pointzby-North,” said he, “is a member of a very old and distinguished family.” That, of course, was final.) But when Pamela began to play, delightfully, and everyone continued to chatter, simianly, he stood up. “Rank has its obligations,” he said—and strode across to the player.