loved. We were parted by stern parents—not mine—and Clothilde was packed off to the good Sisters who had previously had care of her education. Now she is fat and happy, and the wife of a banker and the mother of children. But the romance was sad and bad and mad enough while it lasted; and when Clothilde was (figuratively) dragged from my arms I cursed and swore and out-Heroded Herod, played Termagant, and summoned the heavens to fall down and crush me miserable beneath their weight. And then her brother challenged me to fight a duel, whereupon, as the most worshipped of all She's had not received a ha'porth of harm at my hands, I called him a silly ass and threatened to break his head if he interfered any more in my legitimate despair. I smile at it now; but it was real at two-and-twenty—as real, I take it, as Dale's consuming passion for the lady of the circus. There was also, I remembered, a certain —— But this had nothing to do with Dale. Neither had the tragedy of my lost Clothilde. The memories, however, brought a wistful touch of sympathy into my voice. "You soberly think, my dear old Dale," said I, "that I know nothing of love and passion and the rest of the divine madness?" "I'm sure you don't," he cried, with an impatient gesture. "If you did, you wouldn't—" He came to an abrupt and confused halt. "I wouldn't—what?" "Nothing. I forgot what I was going to say. Let us talk of something else." "It was on the tip of your impulsive tongue," said I cheerfully, "to refer to my attitude towards Miss Faversham." "I'm desperately sorry," said he, reddening. "It was unpardonable. But how did you guess?" I laughed and quoted the Latin tag about the ingenuous boy of the ingenuous visage and ingenuous modesty. "Because I don't feverishly search the postbag for a letter from Miss Faversham you conclude I'm a bloodless automaton?" "Please don't say any more about it, Simon," he pleaded in deep distress. A sudden idea struck me. I reflected, walked to the window, and, having made up my mind, sat down
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