"And yet you propose to leave the land you profess to love," said Philip, rolling himself over so as to catch his friend's eye. "Jack, you are inconsistent." "I must earn my bread and butter. Everyone isn't born like you, with a silver spoon in his mouth. If I can't find employment in England, I must go abroad. Besides, there is always Dolores." "Of course," assented Philip, gravely, "there is always Dolores. Is she pretty, Jack?" "Pretty!" echoed Duval, with huge disdain; "if there is one adjective that does _not_ describe Dolores it is 'pretty.' She's an angel." "Such a vague description. Fra Angelica, Burne Jones, Gustave Doré, all paint angels differently." "Oh, I don't mind being more minute, if you care to listen. But I do not wish to bore you with my love affairs." "I like to be bored with love affairs--when they are those of Jack Duval." Jack smiled thankfully. He was eager to talk of Dolores to Philip; but being somewhat sensitive to ridicule, hesitated as to whether he should do so. As a rule, a man's friends do not care about listening to a lover's ravings. Women are the most sympathetic in such a case; but as Jack had no female friend in whom to confide, he had either to hold his tongue or tell Philip. Philip, he thought, would not care for descriptions of the beloved one, so he kept silent; but now that he had been warmly requested to be as explicit as he pleased, he eagerly hastened to unbosom himself. At that moment, Jack thought Philip an angel of sympathy. "Dolores," he began slowly, fixing his eyes seaward, "is rather tall, with a charming figure. Her hair is purple black, her face oval, and her complexion inclined to be darkish. She has teeth like pearls, and a mouth like Cupid's bow. Her eyes--well, her eyes," said Jack, enthusiastically, "are like those velvety dark pansies when the dew lies on them." "That's the first original epithet you've used, Jack. Teeth of pearl, and Cupid's bow for a mouth are old similes. Dew on pansies is distinctly good." "Oh, if you are going to laugh----" began Jack, angrily, when Cassim hastened to disclaim any such discourtesy. "I'm not laughing, my dear lad. I am only complimenting you on your ingenuity. I know exactly what kind of a woman Dolores is. She is like De Musset's Marquise--half fiend, half angel." "I never heard of her," interrupted Duval, bluntly, as he produced a gold oval from his pocket; "but, to save further description, look at this picture. It was done for me by a Spanish fellow at Tlatonac." Philip surveyed the portrait in the locket long and earnestly. "Has Dolores a temper, Jack?" "Rather!" replied Jack, laconically; "but what do you think of her?" "She has an exquisite face, and, judging from her mouth, a fiery temper. I don't wonder you are in love with her, Jack. I hope she'll make you a good wife." "You seem rather doubtful on that point," said Jack, half annoyed, as he restored the locket to his waistcoat pocket.