smile
of the girl, where lay the difference? It would have puzzled any student
of anatomy to point it out. Yet the one sickened, while to gain the
other most men would have given much.

Cyril's answer to my question satisfied me for the time. He met the girl
often, as was natural. She was a singer of some repute, and our social
circle was what is commonly called "literary and artistic." To do her
justice, however, she made no attempt to fascinate him, nor even to be
particularly agreeable to him. Indeed, she seemed to be at pains to show
him her natural--in other words, her most objectionable side.

Coming out of the theatre one first night, we met her in the lobby. I
was following Cyril at some little distance, but as he stopped to speak
to her the movement of the crowd placed me just behind them.

"Will you be at Leightons' to-morrow?" I heard him ask her in a low tone.

"Yes," she answered, "and I wish you wouldn't come."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a fool, and you bore me."

Under ordinary circumstances I should have taken the speech for
badinage--it was the kind of wit the woman would have indulged in. But
Cyril's face clouded with anger and vexation. I said nothing. I did not
wish him to know that I had overheard. I tried to believe that he was
amusing himself, but my own explanation did not satisfy me.

Next evening I went to Leightons' by myself. The Grants were in town,
and Cyril was dining with them. I found I did not know many people, and
cared little for those I did. I was about to escape when Miss Fawley's
name was announced. I was close to the door, and she had to stop and
speak to me. We exchanged a few commonplaces. She either made love to a
man or was rude to him. She generally talked to me without looking at
me, nodding and smiling meanwhile to people around. I have met many
women equally ill-mannered, and without her excuse. For a moment,
however, she turned her eyes to mine.

"Where's your friend, Mr. Harjohn?" she asked. "I thought you were
inseparables."

I looked at her in astonishment.

"He is dining out to-night," I replied. "I do not think he will come."

She laughed. I think it was the worst part about the woman, her laugh;
it suggested so much cruelty.

"I think he will," she said.

It angered me into an indiscretion. She was moving away. I stepped in
front of her and stopped her.

"What makes you think so?" I asked, and my voice, I know, betrayed t