aves."

"You?"

A sharp, staccato cry broke from Douglas's lips. He had not expected
this. Rice was suddenly an older man. The careless front he showed to
the world was gone. He was haggard, weary, elderly. It was a rare
moment with him.

"I made a brave start," he continued--"like you. Some one took me to
her house. I made an epigram that pleased her; I passed at once into
the circle of her intimates. She flattered me, dazzled me, fed my
ambition and my passion. I told her of the girl whom I loved, whom I
was engaged to marry. She was on the surface sympathetic; in reality
she never afterwards let pass an opportunity of making some scathing
remark as to the folly of a young man sacrificing a possibly brilliant
future for the commonplace joys of domesticity. I became even as the
rest. My head was turned; my letters to Alice became less frequent;
every penny of the money I was earning went to pay my tailor's bills,
and to keep pace with the life which, as her constant companion, I was
forced to live. All the while the girl who trusted me never complained,
but was breaking her heart. They sent for me--she was unwell. I had
promised to take Emily upon the river, and she declined to let me off.
I think that evening some premonition of the truth came to me. We saw a
child drowned--I watched Emily's face. She looked at the corpse without
a shudder, with frank and brutal curiosity. She had never seen anything
really dead,--it was quite interesting. Well, I hurried back to my
rooms, meaning to catch a night train into Devonshire. On the
mantelpiece was a telegram which had come early in the morning. Alice
was worse--their only hope was in my speedy coming. I dashed into a
hansom, but on the step another telegram was handed to me. Alice was
dead. I had not seen her for ten months, and she was dead."

There was an odd, strained silence. Douglas walked away to the window
and gazed with misty eyes over a wilderness of housetops. Rice's head
had fallen forward upon his arms. It was long before he spoke again.
When he did his tone was changed.

"For days I was stupefied. Then habit conquered. I went to her. I
hoped for sympathy--she laughed at me. It was for the best. Then I
told her truths, and she flung them back at me. I knew then what manner
of woman she was--without heart, vain, callous, soulless. It is the
sport of her life to play with, and cast aside when she is weary of
them, the men whom she thinks it worth while to m