ng that his friend's mind was more thoughtful than his own,
while his passions were far stronger than Anthony's, he grew to lean
upon Anthony, to claim his advice sometimes, to follow it often. Anthony
was his mentor, and thought he knew instinctively all the workings of
Sergius' mind and all the possibilities of his nature. The mother of
Sergius was a Russian and a great heiress. Soon after he left Oxford,
she died. His father had been killed by an accident when he was a child.
So he was rich, free, young, in London, with no one to look after him,
until Anthony Endover, who had meanwhile taken orders, was attached as
fourth--or fifth--curate to a smart West End church, and came to live in
lodgings in George Street, Hanover Square.

Then, as Sergius laughingly said, he had a father confessor on the
premises. Yet to-night he had bidden his porter to tell a lie in order
to keep his father confessor out. The lie had been vain. Sergius led the
way morosely into his drawing-room, and turned on the light. Anthony
walked up to the fire, and stretched his tall athletic figure in its
long ebon coat. His firm throat rose out of a jam-pot collar, but his
thin, strongly-marked face rather suggested an intellectual Hercules
than a Mayfair parson, and neither his voice nor his manner was tinged
with what so many people consider the true clericalism.

For all that he was a splendid curate, as his rector very well knew.

Now he stood by the fire for a minute in silence, while Sergius moved
uneasily about the room. Presently Anthony turned round.

"It's beastly wet," he said in a melodious ringing voice. "The black dog
is on me to-night, Sergius."

"Oh!"

"You don't want to go out, really," Anthony continued, looking narrowly
at his friend's curiously rigid face.

"Yes, I do."

"Not to Curzon Street. They've filled up your place. I told Venables to
ask Hugh Graham. I knew he was disengaged to-night. Besides--you're
seedy."

Sergius frowned.

"I'm all right again now," he said coldly, "and I particularly wished to
go. You needn't have been so deuced anxious to make the number right."

"Well, it's done now. And I can't say I'm sorry, because I want to have
a talk with you. I say, Serge, take off those lavender gloves, pull off
your coat, let's send out for some dinner, and have a comfortable
evening together in here. I've had a hard day's work, and I want a
rest."

"I must go out presently."

"After dinner then."

"Befo