s out, and he had lost
every penny that he possessed over a game at cards. And plunging
recklessly across the street, in the darkness of the foggy night, he was
knocked down by passing cab, and was carried insensible to the nearest
hospital. Where let us leave him for a time in good and kindly hands.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"HER EYES WILL SEND ME MAD."

It was true, as Mrs. Trent had said, that Lesley's face often now wore a
look of perplexity and trouble. This look had many differing causes; but
amongst them, not the least was the behavior of Oliver Trent.

Oliver was betrothed to her friend, and she had so much faith in the
honor and constancy of men, that it never occurred to her that he could
prefer herself to Ethel, or that he should think of behaving as though
Ethel were not the first person in the world to him. But as a matter of
fact, he did not conduct himself to Ethel at all as a lover should have
done. Assured of her love, he neglected her: he failed to appear at the
Theatre in time to escort her home, he forgot his promises to visit her;
he let her notes lie unanswered in his pocket. And when she pouted and
remonstrated, he frowned her into silence, which was not at all the way
in which her lover ought to behave.

Of course Lesley did not know this, for Ethel had not taken her into her
confidence on the subject. But she knew very well where Oliver spent his
time. Early and late, on small excuse or on no excuse at all, he
presented himself at Mr. Brooke's house, and made himself Lesley's
companion. At first Lesley did not dislike it. She supposed that Ethel
must be busy with her theatrical studies, or at rehearsal, and that
Oliver was in want of something to do. It was pleasant to have the
companionship of some one younger and more congenial, perhaps, than her
father or Miss Brooke; and she gained a great deal of interesting
information from Oliver during the long hours that he spent with her in
the drawing-room or library. He told her a great deal about London
society, about modern literature, and the fashions of the day; and all
this was as fascinating to Lesley as it was novel. He talked to her
about plays and music and pictures; and he read poetry to her. Modern
poetry, of course: a little Browning, and a good deal of Rossetti and
Swinburne. For amorous and passionate poetry pleased him best; and he
knew that it was likelier to serve his ends than verse of the more
masculine and intellectual kind. L