different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very
soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his
face and send him to the devil."

"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to this
shocking conduct."

"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing the
same game with that you have already done with me; he follows you like
a shadow."

"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious.
"But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about that
man--I can't think why he follows me about so."

"_Can't_ you!" very grimly.

"I assure you the man is in no more love with me than--than----"

"_I_ am! I suppose you will say next."

"Oh dear, no, you are utterly incorrigible and quite in earnest; but
Monsieur D'Arblet is _pretending_ to be in love with me."

"He makes a very good pretence of it, at all events. Here he comes,
confound him! If I had known Mrs. Hazeldine had asked _him_, I would
never have come."

At which Vera, who had heard these outbursts of indignant jealousy
before, and knew how little poor Denis meant the terrible threats he
uttered, only laughed with the pitiless amusement of a woman who knows
her own power.

Lucien D'Arblet came towards her smiling, and sank down into a vacant
basket-chair by her side with the air of a man who knows himself to be
welcome.

He had been paying a great deal of attention latterly to the beautiful
Miss Nevill; he had followed her about everywhere, and had made it patent
in every public place where he had met her that she alone was the sole
aim and object of his thoughts. And yet, with it all, Monsieur Le Vicomte
was only playing a part, and not only that, but he was pretty certain
that she knew it to be so. He gazed rapturously into her beautiful face,
he lowered his voice tenderly in speaking to her, he pressed her hand
when she gave it to him, and even on occasions he raised it furtively to
his lips; but, with all this, he knew perfectly well that she was not one
whit deceived by him. She no more believed him to be in love with her
than he believed it of himself. She was clever and beautiful, and he
admired and even liked her, but in the beginning of their acquaintance
Monsieur D'Arblet had had no thought of making her the object of any
sentimental attentions. He had been driven to it by a discovery that he
had made concerning her character.

Miss Nev