The young man was on his feet, his face very white, his blue eyes aflame. "If you'd give me time to speak----" each word was measured--"you'd find there's no need to insult your daughter!" "Shall I--you puppy--you!" for the shaft had sped. "You leave my house first--This minute--see?" He pointed down the stairs with a hand that shook. "You git--_now_!--I'll have no truck with you!" He was back once more in his master grocer days. "With pleasure"--McTaggart stood his ground--"_when_ you have listened to what I have to say. I shall call on you at twelve to-morrow, Mr. Cadell--to ask you for the honour of your daughter's hand." Melodramatic?--with a touch of the South, but not without a certain youthful dignity. The very fact of this, of the young man's breeding, served but to remind Cadell of his own. "I tell you," he boiled, "I'll have no words about it. Marry Cydonia----? a pauper like you!" He fought for his breath as McTaggart smiled. "You can call if you choose and be damned to you!" Peter bowed, outwardly calm. He turned his head once. Cydonia had vanished, safely sheltered in the house-maid's bedroom. Then, leisurely, he walked downstairs, conscious that the moral victory was his. But the flights seemed endless. He passed the ball-room door and joined in the steady stream pouring down to supper. The thought stung him suddenly as he drew on his coat and tipped the man who handed him his hat. "Hardly hospitable!" But his smile twisted. He refused, as he passed out, the appeal of loitering taxis, and with long angry strides he forged ahead down the empty pavements in a bee line for his club. The night was still young. The stars above shone down through the glow that London spreads upon the domed sky: orange-colored smoke, incense offered up from the fires of her pleasure and burnt sacrifice. In Piccadilly a woman accosted him, with painted lips that brought to mind Fantine. He hurried on, restless, with a feeling in his heart that all was crooked in this maddening world. Love bartered--love profaned ... His eyes still filled with Cydonia's light shrank from that ghastly pageant of lust which decorous London openly allows. In the hall of his club a page ran after him, a pile of letters outstretched on a tray. He took them absently and turned into the smoking-room, with a breath of relief at finding it empty, save for a solitary form, half-buried in a chair, feet outstretched toward the fire. "Hullo!--Bethune." The man reading turned. "Luck, finding you here." For he felt a real pleasure at the sight of the burly figure of his friend and a sudden, uncontrollable longing for sympathy. They drew their chairs together before the cheerful blaze and exchanged commonplaces as the waiter brought drinks. Then, as the door closed, Bethune's voice changed. "What's up, Peter?--got the flu?" "No--the sack!" He laughed as he spoke, amused at the other's perspicacity.