stn't talk to me so, or even to yourself so. You
have the dearest little wife at home, a dear little wife and child."

"You had a son, and have been kind enough to him, God knows. You had a
wife: but that doesn't prevent other--other thoughts. Do you know you
never spoke twice in your life about my mother? You didn't care for
her."

"I--I did my duty by her; I denied her nothing. I scarcely ever had
a word with her, and I did my best to make her happy," interposed the
Colonel.

"I know, but your heart was with the other. So is mine. It's fatal; it
runs in the family, father."

The boy looked so ineffably wretched that the father's heart melted
still more. "I did my best, Clive," the Colonel gasped out. "I went to
that villain Barnes and offered him to settle every shilling I was worth
on you--I did--you didn't know that--I'd kill myself for your sake,
Clivy. What's an old fellow worth living for? I can live upon a crust
and a cigar. I don't care about a carriage, and only go in it to please
Rosey. I wanted to give up all for you, but he played me false, that
scoundrel cheated us both; he did, and so did Ethel."

"No, sir; I may have thought so in my rage once, but I know better now.
She was the victim and not the agent. Did Madame de Florac play you
false when she married her husband? It was her fate, and she underwent
it. We all bow to it, we are in the track and the car passes over us.
You know it does, father." The Colonel was a fatalist: he had often
advanced this Oriental creed in his simple discourses with his son and
Clive's friends.

"Besides," Clive went on, "Ethel does not care for me. She received me
to-day quite coldly, and held her hand out as if we had only parted last
year. I suppose she likes that marquis who jilted her--God bless her!
How shall we know what wins the hearts of women? She has mine. There was
my Fate. Praise be to Allah! It is over."

"But there's that villain who injured you. His isn't over yet," cried
the Colonel, clenching his trembling hand.

"Ah, father! Let us leave him to Allah too! Suppose Madame de Florac
had a brother who insulted you. You know you wouldn't have revenged
yourself. You would have wounded her in striking him."

"You called out Barnes yourself, boy," cried the father.

"That was for another cause, and not for my quarrel. And how do you know
I intended to fire? By Jove, I was so miserable then that an ounce of
lead would have done me little harm!"

The