well enough."

"Olaf"--and this was even more cajoling--"do you know you've never told
me what sort of a woman you most admire?"

"I don't admire any of them," said Colonel Musgrave, stoutly. "They are
too vain and frivolous--especially the pink-and-white ones," he added,
unkindlily.

"Cousin Agatha has told me all about your multifarious affairs of
course. She depicts you as a sort of cardiacal buccaneer and visibly
gloats over the tale of your enormities. She is perfectly dear about
it. But have you never--_cared_--for any woman, Olaf?"

Precarious ground, this! His eyes were fixed upon her now. And hers, for
doubtless sufficient reasons, were curiously intent upon anything in the
universe rather than Rudolph Musgrave.

"Yes," said he, with a little intake of the breath; "yes, I cared once."

"And--she cared?" asked Miss Stapylton.

She happened, even now, not to be looking at him.

"She!" Rudolph Musgrave cried, in real surprise. "Why, God bless my
soul, of course she didn't! She didn't know anything about it."

"You never told her, Olaf?"--and this was reproachful. Then Patricia
said: "Well! and did she go down in the cellar and get the wood-ax or
was she satisfied just to throw the bric-a-brac at you?"

And Colonel Musgrave laughed aloud.

"Ah!" said he; "it would have been a brave jest if I had told her,
wouldn't it? She was young, you see, and wealthy, and--ah, well, I won't
deceive you by exaggerating her personal attractions! I will serve up to
you no praises of her sauced with lies. And I scorn to fall back on the
stock-in-trade of the poets,--all their silly metaphors and similes and
suchlike nonsense. I won't tell you that her complexion reminded me of
roses swimming in milk, for it did nothing of the sort. Nor am I going
to insist that her eyes had a fire like that of stars, or proclaim that
Cupid was in the habit of lighting his torch from them. I don't think
he was. I would like to have caught the brat taking any such liberties
with those innocent, humorous, unfathomable eyes of hers! And they
didn't remind me of violets, either," he pursued, belligerently, "nor
did her mouth look to me in the least like a rosebud, nor did I have the
slightest difficulty in distinguishing between her hands and lilies. I
consider these hyperbolical figures of speech to be idiotic. Ah, no!"
cried Colonel Musgrave, warming to his subject--and regarding it, too,
very intently; "ah, no, a face that could be patche