"Call him a liar!" said a voice.

"Liar?" repeated Schilsky dramatically. "Why liar? I don't deny it. I
would have done it gladly if I could--isn't that just what I've been
saying? Lulu would have got over it all the quicker alone. And then,
why shouldn't I confess it? You're all my friends here." He dropped his
voice. "I'm afraid of Lulu, boys. I was afraid she'd get round me, and
then my chance was gone. She might have shot me, but she wouldn't have
let me go. You never know how a woman of that type'll break out--never!"

"But she didn't!" said Krafft. "You live."

Schilsky understood him.

"Some brute," he cried savagely, "some dirty brute had nothing better
to do than to tell her."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the painted boy.

Furst blew his nose. "It wasn't me. I was mum. 'Pon my honour, I was."

"My God!" said Schilsky, and fell to remembering it. "What a time I've
been through with her this afternoon!" He threatened to be overcome by
the recollection, and supported his head on his hands. "A woman has no
gratitude," he murmured, and drew his handkerchief from his pocket. "It
is a weak, childish sex--with no inkling of higher things." Here,
however, he suddenly drew himself up. "Life is very hard!" he cried, in
a loud voice. "The perpetual struggle between duty and inclination for
a man of genius ...!"

He grew franker, and gave gratuitous details of the scene that had
taken place in his room that afternoon. Most of those present were in
ecstasies at this divulging of his private life, which went forward to
the accompaniment of snores from Ford, and the voice of Dove, who, with
portentous gravity, sang over and over again, the first strophe of THE
LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"A fury!" said Schilsky. "A ... a what do you call it?--a ... Meg ... a
Meg--" He gave it up and went on: "By God, but Lulu knows how! Keep
clear of her nails, boys--I'd advise you!" At this point, he pulled
back his collar, and exhibited a long, dark scratch on the side of his
neck. "A little remembrance she gave me to take away with me!" While he
displayed it, he seemed to be rather proud of it; but immediately
afterwards, his mood veered round again to one of bitter resentment. To
illustrate the injustice she had been guilty of, and his own
long-suffering, he related, at length, the story of his flirtation with
Ephie, and the infinite pains he had been at to keep Louise in
ignorance of what was happening. He grew very tender with himself as