Now, Mr. Arundel Williamson had been hit in some escapade of his youth in which a married woman was concerned; and it was this you know which excited his sympathy so much for Paul, or he would long since have shunned that young gentleman’s society, though the fellows at the club to which the barrister belonged liked the Lieutenant for his pleasant, outspoken, honest manners, his free and easy and unsophisticated ways, and the perfect absence of military snobbism which was characteristic of him. But a good deal of this was assumed as a sort of standing argument against the barrister’s advice to Paul to give up his schemes with regard to the lady whom he loved so much, and remember that his duty to his family, to himself, aye, and to the army, was to avoid a disgraceful _liaison_. Paul had once or twice become quite eloquent on this point, reminded the barrister of his philosophy, quoted some of those very broad maxims which Mr. Williamson had repeated in that little room in the Temple, talked of equality, and raved against all aristocratic assumption on the score of birth and position. When the barrister replied, and endeavoured to show that the Lieutenant was making use of arguments which did not apply to the present case, Paul would hurl at him all kinds of absurd aphorisms about love equalising all ranks, and then rave about his own birth--a bailiff’s son, sir! The only point upon which the barrister got the better of his friend, was when he quietly rehearsed the penalties attendant upon the crime of abduction, and more particularly the severity of the punishment which the law awarded to bigamy. Paul certainly retaliated with the Divorce Court, but he found himself weak in the combat, very weak when the barrister talked of bigamy. The time came however when that difficulty was at an end. Three months of this feverish and wicked dream of love had passed, and Paul had worshipped the idol which the fickle, cynical god, whom the classics supposed to reign supreme in affairs of the heart, had set up. How the rosy youth must have laughed (not in his sleeve, for he never had any sleeves according to the painters) at the simplicity of this young fellow who wore Her Majesty’s uniform! Perhaps Asmodeo was the true god after all; the lame monster with his goat legs, his long visage, his sharp chin, and his demoniacal eyes and mouth, is certainly a more fitting spirit to preside over some of Love’s entanglements than he of the gilded wings and the quiver full of arrows. But he boasted of assuming whatever shape he willed, and confessed that it was necessary to look well sometimes; Vice never pleased half so well unless it had a fair appearance.