"Is that all? Ah! here is tea. I wonder whether I ought to offer to pour it out!" But Mrs. Harrington left the piano, and said that her sight was failing her. She had had enough music. During the rest of the evening Fitz took one or two opportunities of looking at Eve to discover, if he could, what the difference was that he found in her. He had left a girl in Majorca--he found a woman in London. That was the whole difference; but he did not succeed in reducing it to so many words. He had passed most of his life at sea among men. He had not, therefore, had much opportunity of acquiring that doubtful knowledge--the knowledge of women--the only item, by the way, which men will never include among the sciences of existence. Already they know more about the stars than they do about women. Even if Fitz had possessed this knowledge he would not have turned it to account. The wisest fail to do that. We only make use of our knowledge of women in the study of those women with whom other men have to do. "Fitz has grown rather dull and stupid," said Mrs. Harrington, when the two guests had taken their leave. Eve was folding up her work, and did not answer. "Was he like that in Mallorca?" continued the grey lady. "Oh--I think so. He was very quiet always." CHAPTER XV. DON QUIXOTE. They also serve who only stand and wait. "Come down to my club and have a cigar!" The Count stood under a yellow lamp enveloped in his fur-lined coat, looking with heavy, deep-browed eyes at his young companion. Fitz paused. The Count had been kind to Eve. Fitz had noticed his manner towards the girl. He liked Cipriani de Lloseta--as many did--without knowing why. "Thanks," he said, "I should like to." The Count's club was a small and a very select one. It was a club with a literary tendency. The porter who took charge of their coats had the air of a person who read the heavier monthly reviews. He looked upon Fitz, as a man of outdoor tastes, with some misgiving. The Count led the way up to the luxurious silent smoking-room, where a few foreign novels and a host of newspapers littered the tables. As they entered the room a man looked up from his paper with some interest. He was a peculiar-looking man, with a keen face, streaked by suffering--a face that was always ready to wince. This man was a humorist, but he looked as if his own life had been a tragedy. He continued to look at De Lloseta and Fitz with a quiet scrutiny which was somewhat remarkable. It suggested the scrutiny of a woman who is taking notes of another's dress. More particularly perhaps he watched the Count, and the keen eyes had a reflective look, as if they were handing that which they saw, back to the brain behind them for purpose of storage. The Count met his eyes and nodded gravely. With a little nod and a sudden pleasant smile the other returned to the perusal of his evening paper.