ant to own up to something. I
think I ought to, because of certain things I have observed, in order to
prevent possible future misunderstandings."

"What's that?" I asked innocently.

"Only this. As you know, I have always been a confirmed bachelor
on principle. Women introduce too many complications into life, and
although it involves some sacrifice, on the whole, I have thought
it best to do without them and leave the carrying on of the world to
others."

"Well, what of it? Your views are not singular, Bickley."

"Only this. While you were ill the sweetness of that Lady Yva and her
wonderful qualities as a nurse overcame me. I went to pieces all of a
sudden. I saw in her a realisation of every ideal I had ever entertained
of perfect womanhood. So to speak, my resolves of a lifetime melted like
wax in the sun. Notwithstanding her queer history and the marvels with
which she is mixed up, I wished to marry her. No doubt her physical
loveliness was at the bottom of it, but, however that may be, there it
was."

"She is beautiful," I commented; "though I daresay older than she
looks."

"That is a point on which I made no inquiries, and I should advise you,
when your turn comes, as no doubt it will, to follow my example. You
know, Arbuthnot," he mused, "however lovely a woman may be, it would put
one off if suddenly she announced that she was--let us say--a hundred
and fifty years old."

"Yes," I admitted, "for nobody wants to marry the contemporary of his
great-grandmother. However, she gave her age as twenty-seven years and
three moons."

"And doubtless for once did not tell the truth. But, as she does not
look more than twenty-five, I think that we may all agree to let it
stand at that, namely, twenty-seven, plus an indefinite period of sleep.
At any rate, she is a sweet and most gracious woman, apparently in the
bloom of youth, and, to cut it short, I fell in love with her."

"Like Bastin," I said.

"Bastin!" exclaimed Bickley indignantly. "You don't mean to say that
clerical oaf presumed--well, well, after all, I suppose that he is a
man, so one mustn't be hard on him. But who could have thought that he
would run so cunning, even when he knew my sentiments towards the lady?
I hope she told him her mind."

"The point is, what did she tell you, Bickley?"

"Me? Oh, she was perfectly charming! It really was a pleasure to be
refused by her, she puts one so thoroughly at one's ease." (Here,
remembering Bastin