he gave me every encouragement that a
woman could give, until she drew me on by her abominable wiles to make a
fool of myself; and then she turns round and smiles and puts her
handkerchief to her eyes and is 'very sorry,'" mimicking the feminine
intonation, "'and never dreamed of such a thing, and will be very happy
to be my friend; but for anything further--oh! dear, Mr. Maxwell, pray
don't think of it!' Confound her and the whole treacherous sex to which
she belongs! But I'm not done with her yet! I'll have revenge as sure as
my name is Tom Maxwell!"

"As how?" asked a lazy voice from the sofa. "She's a woman, you know.
Being a woman, you can't very well call her out and shoot her, or
horsewhip her, or even knock her down. A fellow may feel like that--I
often have myself, after being jilted; but still it can't be did. It's
an absurd law, I allow, this polite exemption of womankind from condign
and just punishment; but it is too late in the day for chaps like you
and me to go tilt against popular prejudices."

It was a long speech for Paul Warden, who was far too indolent generally
to get beyond monosyllables. He lay stretched at full length on the
sofa, languidly smoking the brownest of meerschaums, and dreamily
watching the smoke curl and wreath around his head. A genial,
good-looking fellow, five years Tom's senior, and remarkably clever in
his profession, the law, when not too lazy to exercise it.

Tom Maxwell paused in his excited striding to look in astonishment at
the speaker.

"You jilted!" he said, "You! You, Paul Warden, the irresistible!"

"Even so, _mon ami_. Like measles, and mumps, and tooth-cutting, it's
something a man has to go through, willy nilly. I've been jilted and
heart-broken some half-dozen times, more or less, and here I am to-night
not a ha'penny the worse for it. So go it, Tom my boy! The more you
rant and rave now, the sooner the pain will be over. It's nothing when
you're used to it. By-the-way," turning his indolent eyes slowly, "is
she pretty, Tom?"

"Of course!" said Tom, indignantly. "What do you take me for? Pretty!
She's beautiful, she's fascinating. Oh, Warden! it drives me mad to
think of it!"

"She's all my fancy painted her--she's lovely, she's divine," quoted Mr.
Warden; "but her heart, it is another's, and it never-- What's her name,
Tom?"

"Fanny Summers. If you had been in this place four-and-twenty hours, you
would have no need to ask. Half the men in town are spoo