“Don’t be a fool. There’s nothing wrong with your heart. All our family have had hearts like steam-engines. Probably you have been feeling a sort of burning. Knock off cigars and that will soon stop.” “You don’t understand me. I mean that a woman has treated me in a way that has finished her whole sex as far as I am concerned. For me, women do not exist.” “You didn’t tell me about this,” said Sir Mallaby, interested. “When did this happen? Did she jilt you?” “Yes.” “In America, was it?” “On the boat.” Sir Mallaby chuckled heartily. “My dear boy, you don’t mean to tell me that you’re taking a shipboard flirtation seriously? Why, you’re expected to fall in love with a different girl every time you go on a voyage. You’ll get over this in a week. You’d have got over it by now if you hadn’t gone and buried yourself in a depressing place like Bingley-on-the-Sea.” The whistle of the speaking-tube blew. Sir Mallaby put the instrument to his ear. “All right,” he turned to Sam. “I shall have to send you away now, Sam. Man waiting to see me. Good-bye. By the way, are you doing anything to-night?” “No.” “Not got a wrestling match on with yourself, or anything like that? Well, come to dinner at the house. Seven-thirty. Don’t be late.” Sam went out. As he passed through the outer office, Miss Milliken intercepted him. “Oh, Mr. Sam!” “Yes?” “Excuse me, but will you be seeing Sir Mallaby again to-day?” “I’m dining with him to-night.” “Then would you—I don’t like to disturb him now, when he is busy—would you mind telling him that I inadvertently omitted a stanza? It runs,” said Miss Milliken, closing her eyes, “‘Trust no future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, act, in the living present, Heart within and God o’erhead!’ Thank you so much. Good afternoon.” § 2 Sam, reaching Bruton Street at a quarter past seven, was informed by the butler who admitted him that his father was dressing and would be down in a few minutes. The butler, an old retainer of the Marlowe family, who, if he had not actually dandled Sam on his knees when an infant, had known him as a small boy, was delighted to see him again. “Missed you very much, Mr. Samuel, we all have,” he said affectionately, as he preceded him to the drawing-room. “Yes?” said Sam absently. “Very much indeed, sir. I happened to remark only the other day that the place didn’t seem the same without your happy laugh. It’s good to see you back once more, looking so well and merry.” Sam stalked into the drawing-room with the feeling that comes to all of us from time to time, that it is hopeless to struggle. The whole damned circle of his acquaintance seemed to have made up their minds that he had not a care in the world, so what was the use? He lowered himself into a deep arm-chair and lit a cigarette.