of them remind you that they were hypothetical?"

"Dear Mr. Torrens, I can't tell you how good and brave you seem to me
for laughing so much, and turning everything to a joke. But I _was_ in
earnest."

"So was I."

"_Then_ I did not understand."

"What did you think I meant?"

"I thought you were playing fast and loose with the nonsense about the
hypothesis. I did indeed."

"Well, I was serious underneath. Listen, and I'll tell you. This
_fiancee_ of mine that you seem so cocksure about has no existence. I
give you my honour that it is so, and that I am glad of it.... Yes--glad
of it! How could I bear to think I was inflicting myself on a woman I
loved, and making her life a misery to her?"

Gwen thought of beginning:--"If she loved you," and giving a little
sketch of a perfect wife under the circumstances. It never saw the
light, owing to a recrudescence of Marcus Curtius, who stood to win
nothing by his venture--was certainly not in love with Erebus. An act of
pure self-sacrifice on principle! Nothing could be farther from her
thoughts, be so good as to observe, than that she _loved_ this man!

He went on uninterrupted:--"No, indeed I am heartily glad of it. It
would be a terrible embarrassment at the best. I should want to let her
off, and she would feel in honour bound to hold on, and really of all
the things I can't abide self-sacrifice is.... Well, Lady Gwendolen,
only consider the feelings of the chap on the altar! Hasn't he a right
to a little unselfishness for his own personal satisfaction?" This was a
sad wet blanket for Marcus Curtius.

Gwen did not believe that Adrian's disclaimer of any preoccupation of
his affections was genuine. According to her theory of life--and there
is much to be said for it--a full-blown Adonis, that is to say, a
lovable man, refusing to love any woman on any terms, was a sort of
monstrosity. The original Adonis of Art and Song was merely an _homme
incompris_, according to this young lady. He hated Venus--odious
woman!--and no wonder. _She_ to claim the rank of a goddess! Besides,
Gwen suspected that Adrian was only prevaricating. Trothplight was one
thing, official betrothal another. It was almost too poor a shuffle to
accuse him of, but she was always flying at the throat of equivocation,
even when she knew she might be outclassed by it. "You are playing with
words, Mr. Torrens," said she. "You mean that you and this young lady
are not 'engaged to be married'? Perhaps