ot possible you're jealous! Isn't that what you
wanted? Besides, there is no reason, really; she is a professional
flirt, and understands her business; you and I know just how much value
to put on all that sweetness. Have a cigar, my dear boy, and keep up
your heart; we'll fix the flirting Fanny yet, please the pigs!"

This was all very true; but, somehow, it wasn't consoling. She was
nothing to him, Tom, of course--and he hated her as hotly as ever; but,
somehow, his thirst for vengeance had considerably cooled down. The cure
was worse than the disease. It was maddening to a young man in his frame
of mind to see those brilliant smiles, those entrancing glances, all
those pretty, coquettish, womanly, wiles that had deluded him showered
upon another, even for that other's delusion. Tom wished he had never
thought of revenge, at least with Paul Warden for his handsome agent.

"Are you going there again?" he asked, moodily.

"Of course," replied Mr. Warden, airily. "What a question, old fellow,
from you of all people. Didn't you hear the little darling telling me to
call again? She overlooked you completely, by-the-by. I'm going again,
and again, and yet again, until my friend, my _fides Achates_, is
avenged."

"Ah!" said Tom, sulkily, "but I don't know that I care so much for
vengeance as I did. Second thoughts are best; and it struck me, whilst I
watched you both to-night, that it was mean and underhand to plot
against a woman like this. You thought so yourself at first, you know."

"Did I? I forget. Well, I think differently now, my dear Tom; and as you
remark, second thoughts are best. My honor is at stake; so put your
conscientious scruples in your pocket, for I shall conquer the
fascinating Fanny or perish in the attempt. Here we are at my boarding
house--won't you come in? No. Well, then, good-night. By-the-way, I
shall be at the enemy's quarters to-morrow evening; if you wish to see
how ably I fight your battles, show yourself before nine. By-by!"

Mr. Maxwell's answer was a deeply bass growl as he plodded on his way;
and Paul Warden, running up to his room, laughed lightly to himself.

"Poor Tom! Poor, dear boy! Jealousy is a green-eyed lobster, and he's a
prey to it--the worst kind. Really, Paul, my son, little black eyes is
the most bewitching piece of calico you have met in your travels lately;
and if you wanted a wife, which you don't, you couldn't do better than
go in and win. As it is--Ah! it's a pity