bly fixed up in some way that
would be sure in time to dissolve, and that he would marry later on. Far
the most popular theory was that he didn't marry simply because he _was_
married, privately; and that he had, no doubt, hurriedly espoused,
before he was of age (and before the Registrar), some barmaid or
chorus-girl, or other dreadful person, who had turned out far too
respectable to divorce, and that he was thus a young man marred. They
had no grounds for the rumour except that clever and promising young men
often did these things, and he had always been a particularly promising
young man, and in this unfortunate case had probably kept his promise.

Vaughan was sitting one morning reading his notices (never believe the
greatest men when they tell you that they don't do that!), when Muir
Howard came cheerily, almost boisterously, into the room. He was an old
school friend who had been devoted to Gillie long before his arrival,
and of whose faults, virtues, cheeriness, and admiration Vaughan had
made a confirmed habit.

Muir was a very good-looking barrister, with vague parliamentary
ambitions and a definite love of machinery. He always had pink cheeks,
and wore a pink carnation, and looked as flourishing, gay, and yet,
somehow, battered, as Vaughan looked pale, fresh, and sardonic. One of
the things that surprised the general public was that Vaughan could not
live without the continuous society of a person who certainly could not
understand a word he wrote or much that he said. They didn't realise
that Vaughan was so accustomed to not listening to Muir's long
confidences, to disputing every proposition he made, and contradicting
every word he said, that he always felt lost when his friend was away.
Muir regarded him as a combination of hero, genius, pet, and child, and
was always giving him advice and imploring him not to do too much. To
Vaughan he was, as I have said, a habit, and there is always something
agreeable in a habit of which one is a little tired.

He had arrived this morning on his bicycle, and came in bringing a whiff
of heartiness, self-complacency, and fresh air, saying, "Hallo! hallo!
hallo! Priceless to find you in, Gillie!" All he got for it was that
Vaughan looked up and said--

"You used to be only breezy. Now you're becoming a thorough draught.
Fold up and keep quiet, can't you?"

"Nervous, I suppose," said Muir, in a sympathetic voice. "I wonder you
don't take that stuff that you see in the