"I am wondering if that young man's mother ever thought him handsome. The nose might have been promising once, before the last half inch grew, and his hair was gold when she first cut his ringlets." Philip looks at the stranger's dissipated eyes, and despite the apparent innocence which the hallowing presence of a guileless ice-cream will temporarily shed over Lothario himself, sees the general demoralisation that has set in. "He is young to be blunted and coarsened," thinks Philip. Annoyed by the impudent stare which possibly amuses rather than displeases his wife, he tells Eleanor she has had enough, and rises to signify departure. Lothario is still covering Clytie with his gaze. She pauses to caress a lean black cat with hungry eyes, that has crept in unobserved from the street. Hurriedly emptying a jug of cream in her saucer, Eleanor is about to present it to the plaintiff stranger. Tom, however, scents the cream, springs on his hind legs, and upsets the liquid over her Parisian skirt. The insipid young man starts forward, for Philip is paying at the counter, and kneels at her feet to repair the damage with his handkerchief. Mrs. Roche stands watching helplessly, her lips curving into smiles. "You are very kind," she murmurs, as his eyeglass falls amongst her chiffons. "The cat was hungry, and now he won't get anything. Philip will not stay and----" She breaks off shortly, for her husband has turned and discovered the youth on his knees before Eleanor, who, as he rises, slips his card into her hand. "I will see the cat is fed," he whispers. She gives him a grateful glance, and explaining the incident to Philip, hurries away, with the stranger's card hidden in her pale kid glove. When she is back in the hotel, Eleanor looks at the name. HERBERT DALLISON. _Junior Conservative Club._ "I don't suppose we shall ever meet again," she says to herself reflectively. "But he must so kindhearted, or he wouldn't have troubled about my dress or the cat." Though Eleanor Roche is so in love with her own lustrous eyes, she does not yet realise how much goodwill they can win her. She has yet to learn that the dangerous gift of a subtle charm may make or mar its owner's life. "We have only one more day here," says Philip, who had mapped out their tour, "and I want you to see 'Waterloo,' dearest." "Is it amusing?" asks Eleanor. "Well, interesting is more the word," "Then I probably shall not care for it. The places you call interesting are so dull!" However, Philip carries out his plan, and takes her to the little straggling village of Brane l'Alleud. The churchyard full of English graves and monuments quite distresses Eleanor. "To think of all these brave men dying nobly for their country, and then being buried in this out-of-the-way place!" she exclaims. "I suppose it is all the same to them," replies Philip.