ected that even Ludovic Quayle had his hours
of innocent self-deception. Be that, however, as it may, certain it is
that in pursuit of this pastime he one day presented to her the
peculiar case of Richard Calmady for discussion, and that, not without
momentous, though indirect, result.

It happened thus. One noon in May, Ludovic had the happiness of finding
himself seated beside Miss St. Quentin in the Park, watching the
endless string of passing carriages and the brilliant crowd on foot.
Sir Reginald Aldham had left his green chair--placed on the far side of
the young lady's--and leaned on the railings talking to some
acquaintance.

"A gay maturity," Ludovic remarked with his air of patronage,
indicating the elder gentleman's shapely back. "The term 'old boy' has,
alas, declined upon the vernacular, and been put to base uses of
jocosity, so it is a forbidden one. Else, in the present instance, how
applicable, how descriptive a term! Should we, I wonder, give thanks
for it, Miss St. Quentin, that the men of my generation will mature
according to a quite other pattern?"

"Will not ripen, but sour?" Honoria asked maliciously. Her companion's
invincible self-complacency frequently amused her. Then she
added:--"But, you know, I'm very fond of him. It isn't altogether easy
to keep straight as a young boy, is it? Depend upon it, it is ten times
more difficult to keep straight as an old one. For a man of that
temperament it can't be very plain sailing between fifty and sixty."

Mr. Quayle looked at her in gentle inquiry, his long neck directed
forward, his chin slightly raised.

"Sailing? The yacht is?"--

"The yacht is laid up at Cowes. And you understand perfectly well what
I mean," Honoria replied, somewhat loftily. Her delicate face
straightened with an expression of sensitive pride. But her anger was
short-lived. She speedily forgave him. The sunshine and fresh air, the
radiant green of the young leaves, the rather superb spectacle of
wealth, vigour, beauty, presented to her by the brilliant London world
in the brilliant, summer noon was exhilarating, tending to lightness of
heart. There was poetry of an opulent, resonant sort in the brave show.
Just then a company of Life Guards clattered by, in splendour of white
and scarlet and shining helmets. The rattle of accoutrements, and thud
of the hoofs of their trotting horses, detached itself arrestingly from
the surrounding murmur of many voices and ceaseless roar of