g to marry," he said. "I say, Guy,
I've got some jolly good advice for you. Don't you marry a whore. Sorry,
old chap!--I forgot you were engaged already. Besides, people don't
marry whores, unless they're fools like me. Didn't you say just now that
I was very lucky? Do you know--I think I am lucky. I think it was a
great piece of luck bringing you to see that girl to-day. Don't you? Oh,
Guy, I could go mad with disappointment. Will nothing in all the world
ever be what it seems?"

"Look here, Michael, are you sure you weren't too hasty? You didn't
wait to see if there was any explanation, did you?"

"She was only going back to her old habits," said Michael bitterly. "I
was a fool to think she wouldn't. And yet I adored her. Fancy, you've
never seen her, after all. Lovely, lovely animal!"

"Oh, you knew what she was?" exclaimed Guy.

"Knew? Yes, of course I knew; but I thought she loved me. I didn't care
about anything when I was sure she loved me. She could only have gone
such a little way down, I thought. She seemed so easy to bring out.
Seeds of pomegranate. Seeds of pomegranate! She's only eaten seeds of
pomegranate, but they were enough to keep her behind. Where are we
going? Oh, yes, Cheyne Walk. My mother will be delighted when she hears
my news, and so will everybody. That's what's amusing me. Everybody will
clap their hands, and I'm wretched. But you are sorry for me, Guy? You
don't think I'm just a fool being shown his folly? And at eighteen I was
nearly off my head only because I saw someone kiss her! There's one
thing over which I score--the only person who can appreciate all the
humor of this situation is myself."

Nearly all the way to Cheyne Walk Michael was laughing very loudly.

CHAPTER IX

THE GATE OF HORN

Guy thought it would be better if he went straight back to Plashers
Mead; but Michael asked him to stay until the next day. He was in no
mood, he said, for a solitary evening, and he could not bear the notion
of visiting friends, or of talking to his mother without the restriction
that somebody else's presence would produce.

So Guy agreed to spend the night in London, and they dined with Mrs.
Fane. Michael in the sun-colored Summer room felt smothered by a
complete listlessness; and talking very little, he sat wondering at the
swiftness with which a strong fabric of the imagination had tumbled
down. The quiet of Cheyne Walk became a consciousness of boredom and
futility, and he su