ous to know what is happening in your City of Destruction."

He elevated his eyebrows. "Miss Fleming, for instance?" he queried.

"Of course I shall be glad to hear of Rose. I always am. And that
reminds me that her letters are few and unsatisfactory. Have you seen
anything of her since the holidays?"

"Yes," he replied, "we have met several times; once at the house of a
mutual friend, once at Olympia, and I believe twice at the theatre."

"Do people 'meet' at the theatre?" I inquired.

"They do if they arrange to do so, and keep their appointments," he
replied provokingly. "I am fortunate in being acquainted with some of
Miss Fleming's friends. I am sorry her letters leave something to be
desired, but you need not be uneasy; she herself is as lively and
fascinating as ever."

I should have liked to ask him who the friends were, for Rose has never
mentioned them, and she had none who could possibly have been in the
Cynic's set in the old days; but friends can generally be found when
the occasion demands them. I said nothing, of course, and he looked at
me quizzically.

"Your comments," he remarked, "if I may quote, are 'few and
unsatisfactory.'"

It was true, but he need not have noticed it. The fact is, I had
nothing to say at the moment. That being the case there was plainly
nothing for it but to abuse _him_.

"You are the Cynic to-day," I said, "and I foresee that you are going
to sharpen your wit upon poor me. But I am not in the mood. You see,
it is Sunday, and in Windyridge we are subdued and not brilliant on
Sundays."

Perhaps his ear caught the weariness in my voice, for I was feeling
tired and depressed; at any rate his tone changed immediately.

"I saw at once you were off colour," he said, "and I was making a
clumsy attempt to buck you up; but, seriously, have you no questions
you wish to ask me about the old place?"

"I should like to know how matters are progressing with you," I said.
"I often wonder what the world thinks of your pronunciation."

"The world knows nothing of it. I have never mentioned what I have
done to anyone but you, and I do not propose to do so. As for
myself--but what makes you wonder? Are you afraid I may have repented?"

"No," I replied, "you will never repent, you are not that sort. Not
for one moment have I doubted your steadfastness."

"Thank you," he said simply; and then, after a moment's pause:

"I don't think it is anything to my credit. If I