“Pity generally seems to be an elegant method of condoning those offences which one has in common with the person pitied,” replied Sylvester. “So that when you are stainless you are pitiless?” “In the sense of sympathising with evil in any form--yes.” “Well,” said the old man, throwing himself back in his chair and covering his eyes with his hand, “thank God there's still some sin left in the world to keep it sweet!” CHAPTER XV--A STRIP OF PINK PAPER A few days afterwards Sylvester received an invitation to the wedding, accompanied by a despairing note from Lady Milmo. Ella _would_ do it, and who could prevent her? When a woman was _bent_ on a thing, especially _matrimony_, no mule in the world was so _obstinate_. Lady Milmo italicised freely, “obstinate” being doubly underlined. She hoped, however, that the lovers would be happy, explained that the wedding would be as quiet as her enormous circle of acquaintance would allow, and besought Sylvester to come and support her as the only soul that sympathised with her in this disastrous occurrence. Sylvester read the letter through somewhat grimly. Then he glanced at the silver-printed card. The conjuncture of the names caused him a sudden feeling of repugnance, and with an impulse he did not seek to explain, he threw the card into the fire. As for the invitation, he declined it on the score of professional engagements; also because he disapproved of marriage in the abstract. If all the race for one generation, he wrote, passed a self-denying ordinance of celibacy, there would be an end of this miserable thing that was called humanity. On receipt of this letter, Lady Milmo smiled astutely and took advantage of a confidential hour before bedtime to tread upon delicate ground. “I shall always wonder why you refused Sylvester Lanyon, Ella,” she said meditatively. The blood flew angrily into Ella's cheeks, and she turned away her head. “I never refused him because he never did me the honour to ask me to marry him.” “Perhaps he needed a little encouragement, dear,” said Lady Milmo, somewhat taken aback. “He needs a lot to make a man of him that only his Maker could give him,” replied Ella, turning round vindictively. “His blood is a kind of Condy's Fluid, and his heart is a glass retort. He's just a piece of sentient mechanism. How do you think a man like that could ask a girl to marry him?” “Well, he did once,” murmured Lady Milmo. “He was different then,” said Ella, with a queer little shock of pain. “I used to like him. But now--now there is no one in the whole wide world I dislike so much. Sometimes when he comes here and talks to me in that cold, emotionless voice of his, I absolutely hate him. And if it wasn't for my dear old Uncle Matthew--” she broke off and rang the bell for her maid. “It's about time to go to bed, auntie.”