e said: "If I were you I'd prepare him. He's beaten as sure
as the sun shines."

Junia was tempted to say what was in her mind, but her sister Sibyl, who
resented Barouche's patronage, said:

"There's an old adage about the slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,
Monsieur Barouche. He's young, and he's got a better policy than yours."

"And he's unmarried, eh!" Barouche remarked. "He's unmarried, and I
suppose that matters!" There was an undercurrent of meaning in his voice
which did not escape Junia.

"And Monsieur Barouche is also unmarried," she remarked. "So you're even
there."

"Not quite even. I'm a widower. The women don't work for me as they work
for him."

"I don't understand," remarked Junia. "The women can't all marry him."

"There are a lot of things that can't be understood by just blinking the
eyes, but there's romance in the fight of an unmarried man, and women
like romance even if it's some one else's. There's sensation in it."

Barouche looked to where Carnac was slowly coming down the centre of the
hall. Women were waving handkerchiefs and throwing kisses towards him.
One little girl was pushed in front of him, and she reached out a hand
in which was a wild rose.

"That's for luck, m'sieu'," she said.

Carnac took the rose, and placed it in his buttonhole; then, stooping
down, he kissed the child's cheek. Outside the hall, Barode Barouche
winked an eye knowingly. "He's got it all down to a science. Look at
him--kissing the young chick. Nevertheless, he's walking into an abyss."

Carnac was near enough now for the confidence in his face to be seen.
Barouche's eyes suddenly grew resentful. Sometimes he had a feeling of
deep affection for his young challenger; sometimes there was a storm
of anger in his bosom, a hatred which can be felt only for a member
of one's own family. Resentment showed in his face now. This boy was
winning friends on every side.

Something in the two men, some vibration of temperament, struck the
same chord in Junia's life and being. She had noticed similar gestures,
similar intonations of voice, and, above all else, a little toss of the
head backwards. She knew they were not related, and so she put the whole
thing down to Carnac's impressionable nature which led its owner into
singular imitations. It had done so in the field of Art. He was young
enough to be the imitator without loss to himself.

"I'm doing my best to defeat you," she said to Barouche, reaching out
a hand