"I should hope so!" exclaimed his hostess. "But you will at least have her to yourself, and that pays for every thing." "Oh, _peutêtre!_" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well aware that the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond of talking to resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "_peutêtre_, though I never believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in your line; you still have faith in it." "Oh, I do," she rejoined quickly; "and so would you if you were in love. You'd be content to be on a rock in the mid ocean if she were there." "Love on a desert island," returned the young man, smiling significantly; "Oh, _le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxième jour, ce n'est pas si bon; le troisième jour--mon Dieu, mais comment on s'ennuie!_" "No, no, no," Helen broke in impetuously. "Good, always! Always, always, or never!" Fenton threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter. "'Twere errant folly to presume, Love's flame could burn and not consume," he sang, going off again into peals of laughter. "Good by, _mon amie_; oh, _mais comment on s'en--_" "Stop," interrupted she. "I'll have no more blasphemy." "Good-by, then," he said, picking up his hat. "You may as well stay to lunch," his hostess said rising. "No," returned he. "I must go and write to Edith." And off he went, humming: "'Twere errant folly to presume Love's flame could burn and not consume." II. THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. Measure for Measure; iv--i. As many of the Boston clocks as ever permitted themselves so far to break through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper, had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group of men seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of the sitting-rooms of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up. Indeed, the room was so pleasant and warm, with its artistically combined colors, its good pictures and glowing grates, and the storm outside raged so savagely, beating its wind and sleet against the windows, that a reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was only natural, and there would be little room for surprise should the men conclude to remain where they were until daylight. The conversation, carried on amid clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke and with potations, not excessive but comfortably frequent, was quiet and unflagging, possessing, for the most part, that mellow quality which is seldom attained before the small hours and the third cigar. "Yes, virtue has to be its own reward," Tom Bently was saying lightly, "for, don't you see, the people who practice it are too narrow-minded to appreciate any thing else." "And that makes it the most poorly paid of all the professions," was the retort of Fred Rangely, who was lounging in a big easy chair; "except literature, that is. Even sin is said to get death for its wage, and that is something."