Major Jen chuckled and rubbed his hands together in a satisfied manner. Etwald bent his sombre looks on Maurice, and that young man, biting his lip, took up the implied challenge in Sarby's remark, and answered plainly: "I am not in love with Lady Meg, my dear fellow," said he, sharply; "but if you must know, I admire"--this with emphasis--"Miss Dallas." The brow of Sarby grew black, and in his turn he rose to his feet. "I am glad to hear it is only 'admire,'" he remarked, slowly, "for had the word been any other I should have resented it." "You! And upon what grounds?" cried Alymer, flushing out in a rage. "That is my business." "And mine, too," said Maurice, hotly. "Isabella is--" "I forbid you to call Miss Dallas by that name," declared David, in an overbearing manner. "You--you--you forbid me!" "Come, come, boys!" said Jen, annoyed at this scene between two hot-headed young men, who were not yet gifted with the self-restraint of experience. "Don't talk like this. You are at my table. There is a stranger" (here he bowed ceremoniously to Etwald) "or shall I say a friend, present!" "Say a friend," observed Etwald, calmly, "although I am about to say that which may cause these two young gentlemen to look upon me as an enemy." "What do you mean?" asked Maurice, turning his still frowning face toward this strange and enigmatic man. "What I say, Mr. Alymer! You--admire Miss Dallas?" "Why bring her name into the question? Yes, I admire Miss Dallas." "And you, Mr. Sarby, I can tell from your attitude, from your look; you love Miss Dallas." David was taken aback by this strange speaking. "Yes. I--I--I do love Miss Dallas." "I guessed as much," resumed Etwald, with a cold smile. "Now, it is strange--" "It is strange that a lady's name should be thus introduced," said Jen, annoyed at the tone of the conversation. "Let us drop the subject. Another cigar, Maurice. David, the wine is with you. Dr. Etwald--" "One moment, major. I wish we three to understand one another"--here the doctor hesitated, then went on in an impressive voice--"about Miss Dallas!" "Why do you speak of her?" asked Maurice, fiercely, while David looked loweringly at Etwald. "Because I love her!" "You love her!" The two young men burst out simultaneously with the speech in tones of sheer astonishment, and stared at Etwald as at some strangle animal. That this elderly man--Etwald was midway between thirty and forty, but that looked elderly to these boys of twenty-five--should dare to love Isabella Dallas, was a thing unheard of. She so young, so beautiful, so full of divine youth and diviner womanhood; he so sombre, pale and worn with intellectual vigils; with a mysterious past, a doubtful present and a problematic future.