dolphin, after five games of ecarte at a
pony a side, three of which Falkenstein had lost, "I heard Max lamenting
to old Straitlace in the lobby, the other night, that you were going to
the devil, only the irreproachable member phrased it in more delicate
periods."

"Quite true," said Falkenstein, with a short laugh, "if for devil you
substitute Queen's Bench."

"Well, we're en route together, old fellow," interrupted Tom Bevan;
"and, with all your sins, you're a fat lot better than that brother of
yours, who, I believe, don't know Latakia from Maryland. Jesse Egerton
told me the other day that his wife has an awful life of it; but who'd
credit it of a man who patronises Exeter Hall, and gave the shoeblacks
only yesterday such unlimited supply of weak tea, buns, and strong
texts?"

"Who indeed! Max is such a moral man," sneered Falkenstein; "though he
has done one or two things in his life that I wouldn't have stooped to
do. But you may sin as much as you like as long as you sin under the
rose. John Bull takes his vices as a ten pound voter takes a bribe; he
stretches his hand out eagerly enough, but he turns his eyes away and
looks innocent, and is the first to point at his neighbor and cry out
against moral corruption. Melville's quite right that there is an
eleventh commandment--'Thou shalt not be found out'--whose transgression
is the only one society visits with impunity."

"True enough," laughed Jimmy Fitzroy. "Thank Heaven, nobody can accuse
us of studying the law and the prophets overmuch. By the way, old
fellow, who's that stunning little girl you were walking with by the
Serpentine yesterday morning, when I was waiting for the Metcalfe, who
promised to meet me at twelve, and never came till half-past one--the
most unpunctual woman going. Any new game? She's a governess, ain't she?
She'd some sort of brat with her; but she's deuced good style, anyhow."

"That's little L'Estrange," laughed Godolphin: "the beloved Bella's
cousin. He's met her there every day for the last three months. I don't
know how much further the affair may have gone, or if----"

"My dear Harry, your imagination is running away with you," said
Falkenstein, impatiently. "I never made an appointment with her in my
life; she's not the same style as Mrs. Metcalfe."

Oh the jesuitism of the most candid men on occasion! He never made an
appointment with her, because it was utterly unnecessary, he knowing
perfectly that he should find her f