e are great friends," he said laughingly. "Only, you know, I
sometimes shock him a little--just a very little."

"That is very unkind of you, I am sure," said Mrs. Courtenay, smiling.

"No, not at all," said Zaluski, with the audacity of a privileged being.
"It is just my little amusement, very harmless, very--what you call
innocent. Mr. Blackthorne cannot make up his mind about me. One day I
appear to him to be Catholic, the next Comtist, the next Orthodox Greek,
the next a convert to the Anglican communion. I am a mystery, you see!
And mysteries are as indispensable in life as in a romance."

He laughed. Mrs. Courtenay laughed too, and a little friendly banter was
carried on between them, while the curate stood by feeling rather out of
it.

I drew nearer to him, perceiving that my prospects bid fair to improve.
For very few people can feel out of it without drifting into a
self-regarding mood, and then they are the easiest prey imaginable.
Undoubtedly a man like Zaluski, with his easy nonchalance, his knowledge
of the world, his genuine good-nature, and the background of sterling
qualities which came upon you as a surprise because he loved to make
himself seem a mere idler, was apt to eclipse an ordinary mortal like
James Blackthorne. The curate perceived this and did not like to be
eclipsed--as a matter of fact, nobody does. It seemed to him a little
unfair that he, who had hitherto been made much of, should be called to
play second fiddle to this rich Polish fellow who had never done anything
for Muddleton or the neighbourhood. And then, too, Sigismund Zaluski had
a way of poking fun at him which he resented, and would not take in good
part.

Something of this began to stir in his mind; and he cordially hated the
Pole when Jim Courtenay, who arranged the tennis, came up and asked him
to play in the next set, passing the curate by altogether.

Then I found no difficulty at all in taking possession of him; indeed he
was delighted to have me brought back to his memory, he positively
gloated over me, and I grew apace.

Zaluski, in the seventh heaven of happiness, was playing with Gertrude
Morley, and his play was so good and so graceful that every one was
watching it with pleasure. His partner, too, played well; she was a
pretty, fair-haired girl, with soft grey eyes like the eyes of a dove;
she wore a white tennis dress and a white sailor hat, and at her throat
she had fastened a cluster of those beauti