ed a poor diplomatist, since, without having ever
done the slightest harm or indeed really said a word of love to Bertha,
he had yet brought her husband down upon him, forbidding him the house
and sending him to the devil. That was diplomacy, wasn't it? and as to
success, she regarded him with indifference bordering on aversion and
was clearly madly in love with that dull uninteresting Percy. All (Nigel
admitted), all his own stupidity. Whether or not wickedness is punished
in another world, there can be no doubt that stupidity and folly is most
decidedly punished in this.

But then, could he help it that Mary went behind his back and wrote the
most dreadful letters, that she had this terrible mania for writing
letters? But if he had been so very clever and diplomatic he would
somehow or another have prevented it. Oh yes, there was no doubt he was
a fool, and he had without doubt been made supremely ridiculous. He was
well aware that he was ridiculous.

* * * * *

Rupert Denison liked Nigel, but he had no idea how intimate he was with
Nigel. In other words he hadn't the faintest idea how well Nigel knew
him. And this is a case which happens every day owing to the present
custom of confidential gossip; and is too frequently rather unfairly
arranged through the intimate friendship of women. For example,
Madeline, regarding Bertha as the most confidential of sisters, told her
every little thing, showed her every letter, and had no shadow of a
secret from her in word or thought. Bertha was almost equally confiding
except than an older married woman is never quite so frank with a girl
friend--there must always be certain reservations. Bertha was an
intimate friend of Nigel and practically told _him_ every little
thing--he was "the sort of man you could tell everything to," he was
interested, amused, and gave excellent advice. The result was obvious;
very little about Rupert and his private romance with Madeline was
unrevealed to Nigel.

Nigel felt inclined to smile when he remembered all he had heard.
Rupert, on the other hand, was not "the sort of man you could tell
everything to"; he therefore had no confidential women friends and knew
nothing at all about Nigel. For all he knew, he was just as much as ever
_l'ami de la maison_ at Percy's house.

At the very end of the dinner, which was a very pleasant one, during
which Nigel had been sparkling and Rupert a little quiet, Nigel suddenly