pretend to like the idea, anyhow," I remarked.

He shrugged his shoulders. It was not the time for a lecture on
morality.

"How do you know that the lady returns your passion?" I asked, watching
him narrowly.

He grew red. "Is that a fair question?"

"Yes," said I. "You invited me to call on her and judge the affair for
myself. I'm doing it. How far have things gone up to now?"

He flashed round on me. Did I mean to insinuate that there was anything
wrong? There wasn't. How could I dream of such a thing? He was vastly
indignant.

"Well, my dear boy," said I, "you've just this minute been scoffing at
foolish moral conventions. If you want to know my opinion," I continued,
after a pause, "it is this--she doesn't care a scrap for you."

Of course I was talking nonsense.

I did not condescend to argue. Neither did I dwell upon the fact that
her affection had not reached the point of informing him whether she
had a husband, and if so, whether he was alive or dead. This gives me an
idea. Suppose I can prove to him beyond a shadow of doubt that the lady,
although flattered by the devotion of a handsome young fellow of birth
and breeding, does not, as I remarked, care a scrap for him. Suppose I
exhibit her to him in the arms, figuratively speaking, of her husband
(providing one is lurking in some back-alley of the world), Mr.
Anastasius Papadopoulos, a curate, or a champion wrestler. He would do
desperate things for a month or two; but then he would wake up sane
one fine morning and seek out Maisie Ellerton in a salutary state of
penitence. I wish I knew a curate who combined a passion for bears and a
yearning for ladylike tea-parties. I would take him forthwith to Cadogan
Gardens. Lola Brandt and himself would have tastes in common and would
fall in love with each other on the spot.

Of course there is the other time-honoured plan which I have not yet
tried--to arm myself with diplomacy, call on Madame Brandt, and, working
on her feelings, persuade her in the name of the boy's mother and
sweetheart to make a noble sacrifice in the good, old-fashioned way. But
this seems such an unhumourous proceeding. If I am to achieve eumoiriety
I may as well do it with some distinction.

"Who doth Time gallop withal?" asks Orlando.

"With a thief to the gallows," says Rosalind. It is true. The days
have an uncanny way of racing by. I see my little allotted span of life
shrinking visibly, like the _peau de chagrin_. I must b