“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth is usually a stranger to your lips.” For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving further proof of age before accession to age. Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a suitor of possible quality. He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain on that account. But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length of describing a _liaison_ with a certain titled lady, who had become enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love, and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of kisses.