tive, artistic joy that one takes in the best
literature, an intellectual pleasure that is usually more or less
mingled with the merely spiteful satisfaction that we are accused of
taking in the misfortunes of our best friends. And how well Harry told
it!

His style was perfect. It was brilliancy, charm, humour, and pathos; he
laughed at himself, and yet made himself an object of real sympathy,
without losing either his dignity or his dash.

He knew that his confidence aroused enormous interest, and to him that
was a great gratification. And so Harry drowned his sorrows in talk, as
other men drown theirs in wine, or in sport, or in taking some violent
step. He intoxicated and soothed himself with conversation.

But Harry was not an unpractical man--not one of those for whom words
take place of actions--and he could face facts. Valentia was irrevocably
lost to him. To attempt to regain Miss Walmer, although it might perhaps
not be impossible, would make him ridiculous. The letter he had written
at Romer's dictation had been too definite. He would give himself away
hopelessly as a fortune-hunter if he tried to go back on that. Besides,
he was absolutely sick of it all, and if he was more in love with
Valentia than he had ever supposed himself to be because she no longer
wanted him, he disliked the thought of Miss Walmer far more than he ever
had before, because he was convinced she would forgive him and be
devoted to him even now.

Van Buren had taken the knock, as he expressed it, using with relish the
English slang phrase, with regard to Daphne, and he had made up his mind
to return to New York. Under the circumstances he now had little
difficulty in persuading Harry to come out with him right away. He
undertook to provide for his friend's future, and that he should make a
fortune in the Bank, and perhaps when this was agreed upon Van Buren
had never been so happy. He was far more genuinely a man's man than was
Harry. He regarded women from the point of view of the well-bred
American--with deference, a sort of distant tenderness, a most
chivalrous and gentle respect. He looked upon them as ornamental and as
delightful adjuncts to life, like flowers in a ball-room, but not
seriously as part of it. Nor, either, as mere toys. He placed women far
more highly than Harry did; he thought everything should be done for
them, given to them, that they had a right to any position they were
able to hold, that they should be trea