u think," the poet interposed, in his cultivated drawl, "he
may have really meant it? Why should not some grain of compunction
have stirred his soul still?--some remnant of conscience made him
shrink from betraying a man who confided in him? I have an idea,
myself, that even the worst of rogues have always some good in them.
I notice they often succeed to the end in retaining the affection
and fidelity of women."

"Oh, I said so!" Charles sneered. "I told you you literary men have
always an underhand regard for a scoundrel."

"Perhaps so," the poet answered. "For we are all of us human. Let
him that is without sin among us cast the first stone." And then he
relapsed into moody silence.

We rose from table. Cigars went round. We adjourned to the
smoking-room. It was a Moorish marvel, with Oriental hangings.
There, Senator Wrengold and Charles exchanged reminiscences of
bonanzas and ranches and other exciting post-prandial topics; while
the magazine editor cut in now and again with a pertinent inquiry
or a quaint and sarcastic parallel instance. It was clear he had an
eye to future copy. Only Algernon Coleyard sat brooding and silent,
with his chin on one hand, and his brow intent, musing and gazing at
the embers in the fireplace. The hand, by the way, was remarkable
for a curious, antique-looking ring, apparently of Egyptian or
Etruscan workmanship, with a projecting gem of several large facets.
Once only, in the midst of a game of whist, he broke out with a
single comment.

"Hawkins was made an earl," said Charles, speaking of some London
acquaintance.

"What for?" asked the Senator.

"Successful adulteration," said the poet tartly.

"Honours are easy," the magazine editor put in.

"And two by tricks to Sir Charles," the poet added.

Towards the close of the evening, however--the poet still remaining
moody, not to say positively grumpy--Senator Wrengold proposed a
friendly game of Swedish poker. It was the latest fashionable
variant in Western society on the old gambling round, and few of us
knew it, save the omniscient poet and the magazine editor. It turned
out afterwards that Wrengold proposed that particular game because
he had heard Coleyard observe at the Lotus Club the same afternoon
that it was a favourite amusement of his. Now, however, for a while
he objected to playing. He was a poor man, he said, and the rest
were all rich; why should he throw away the value of a dozen golden
sonnets just to add