Warburton remained standing. He was lost in a dream. All at once he pressed the rose to his lips and kissed it shamelessly, kissed it uncountable times. Two or three leaves, not withstanding this violent treatment, fluttered to the floor. He picked them up: any one of those velvet leaves might have been the recipient of _her_ kisses, the rosary of love. He was in love, such a love that comes but once to any man, not passing, uncertain, but lasting. He knew that it was all useless. He had digged with his own hands the abyss between himself and this girl. But there was a secret gladness: to love was something. (For my part, I believe that the glory lies, not in being loved, but in loving.) I do not know how long he stood there, but it must have been at least ten minutes. Then the door opened, and Monsieur Pierre lurched or rolled (I can't quite explain or describe the method of his entrance) into the room, his face red with anger, and a million thousand thunders on the tip of his Gallic tongue. "So! You haf leaf _me_ to clear zee table, eh? Not by a damn! _I_, clear zee table? _I?_ I t'ink not. I _cook_, nozzing else. To zee dining-room, or I haf you discharge'!" "All right, Peter, old boy!" cried Warburton, the gloom lifting from his face. This Pierre was a very funny fellow. "Pe_taire!_ You haf zee insolence to call me Pe_taire?_ Why, I haf you keeked out in zee morning, lackey!" "Cook!"--mockingly. Pierre was literally dumfounded. Such disrespect he had never before witnessed. It was frightful. He opened his mouth to issue a volley of French oaths, when Zhames's hand stopped him. "Look here, Peter, you broil your partridges and flavor your soups, but keep out of the stables, or, in your own words, I _keel_ you or _keek_ you out. You tell the scullery maid to clear off the table. I'm off duty for the rest of the night. Now, then, _allons! Marche!"_ And M'sieu Zhames gently but firmly and steadily pushed the scandalized Pierre out of the room and closed the door in his face. I shan't repeat what Pierre said, much less what he thought. Let me read a thought from the mind of each of my principals, the final thought before retiring that night. _Karloff_ (on leaving Mrs. Chadwick): Dishonor against dishonor; so it must be. I can not live without that girl. _Mrs. Chadwick:_ (when Karloff had gone); He has lost, but I have not won. _Annesley:_ So one step leads to another, and the labyrinth of dishonor has no end. _The Colonel:_ What the deuce will love put next into the young mind? _Pierre_ (to Celeste): I haf heem discharge'! _Celeste_ (to Pierre): He ees handsome! _Warburton_ (sighing in the _doloroso_): How I love her! _The Girl_ (standing before her mirror and smiling happily): Oh, Mister Butler! Why? XX THE EPISODE OF THE STOVE-PIPE