The poem of a man's life is very deeply hidden, and civilisation is the covert. The immediate outcome of civilisation is reserve and--nous voila. Are we not increasing our educational facilities with a blind insistence day by day? One wonders what three generations of cheap education will do for the world. Already a middle-aged man can note the slackening of the human tie. Railway directors, and other persons whose pockets benefit by the advance of civilisation, talk a vast deal of rubbish about bringing together the peoples of the world. You can connect them, but you cannot bring them together. Moreover, a connection is sometimes a point of divergence. In human affairs it is more often so than otherwise. True, a generation lay between these two men, but it was not that that tied their tongues. It was partially the fact that Cipriani de Lloseta had moved with the times--had learnt, perhaps, too well, to acquire that reserve which is daily becoming more noticeable among men. Nevertheless, it was he who spoke first. "I asked you to come and smoke a cigar with me for a purpose," he said. Fitz nodded. "Yes," he answered; "I thought so." A shadowy smile acknowledged this simple statement of a simple fact. The Count leant forward on his seat, resting his somewhat hollow cheek on his hand and his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Some years ago," he said, "before you were born, I passed through a--well, a bad time. One of those times, I take it, when a man finds out the difference between a friend and an acquaintance. The circumstances would not interest you. They are essentially personal. Some men, and many women--I am not cynical, that is the last resource of one who has himself to blame, I am merely stating a fact--many women turned their backs upon me. There was, however, one man--an Englishman--who held to me with that unflinching courage of his own opinion which makes an Englishman what he is. I accepted nothing from him at the time. In fact, he could do nothing for me. I think he understood. An Englishman and a Spaniard have much in common. He is dead now. It was Challoner." Fitz nodded. The Count changed his position slightly. "I want you to use what influence you have with Miss Challoner. She is proud." Fitz made no attempt to disclaim the implied influence. "Yes," he said; "I know." And he looked at the end of his cigar with a deep interest. The man who loves a proud woman loves her pride. He is also a happy man, because her pride will kill her vanity, and it is a woman's vanity that spoils a husband's love. "It would be a great satisfaction to me," the Count went on, "to pay off in some small degree the debt of gratitude which I never even acknowledged to Challoner. Eve"--he paused, and repeated the name with a certain sense of enjoyment--"Eve is not fully equipped with worldly wisdom. Thank God, for I hate a worldly-wise woman. She is hardly old enough or--plain enough to fight her own battles."