er, he quite enjoyed his new sense of superiority to her charms, and
the ease with which he could chaff and be agreeable. And all the time he
suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now, to
think and talk of Phyllis. Ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful, his
old Madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a
teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop.
Favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that Ventnor was an
agreeable fellow, Bob Pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the
subject of his affections.

"Do you happen," he said airily, "to know a Mrs. Larne--relative of old
Heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories."

Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin's would
have seen that he also moved his ears.

"Of old Heythorp's? Didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and
that son of his in the Admiralty."

Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.

"She is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. I
thought you might know her stories--clever woman."

Mr. Ventnor smiled. "Ah!" he said enigmatically, "these lady novelists!
Does she make any money by them?"

Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that not
to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had private
means, which perhaps was even more distinguished. And he said:

"Oh! she has private means, I know."

Mr. Ventnor reached for the Madeira.

"So she's a relative of old Heythorp's," he said. "He's a very old
friend of your father's. He ought to go bankrupt, you know."

To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy
seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides,
the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on
Mrs. Larne? And he said:

"I think you're mistaken. That's of the past."

Mr. Ventnor smiled.

"Will you bet?" he said.

Bob Pillin also smiled. "I should be bettin' on a certainty."

Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. "Don't you believe
it; he hasn't a mag to his name. Fill your glass."

Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:

"Well, I happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six
thousand pounds. Don't know if you call that being bankrupt."

"What! On this Mrs. Larne?"

Confused, uncertain whether he had said s