er dies. It
has outlasted all the mobs and all the religions."

"They seemed to think," he continued, pursuing his Newport train of
thought, "that to prove you were a dead game sport you must behave
like--behave like--"

"Like a herd of swine," I suggested.

He was merry. "Ah, if they only would--completely!"

"Completely what?"

"Behave so. Rush over a steep place into the sea."

We sat in the quiet relish of his Scriptural idea, and the western
crimson and the twilight began to come and mingle with the perfumes.
John Mayrant's face changed from its vivacity to a sort of pensive
wistfulness, which, for all the dash and spirit in his delicate
features, was somehow the final thing one got from the boy's expression.
It was as though the noble memories of his race looked out of his eyes,
seeking new chances for distinction, and found instead a soil laid
waste, an empty fatherland, a people benumbed past rousing. Had he not
said, "Poor Kings Port!" as he tapped the gravestone? Moral elegance
could scarcely permit a sigh more direct.

"I am glad that you believe it never dies," he resumed. "And I am glad
to find somebody to--talk to, you know. My friends here are everything
friends and gentlemen should be, but they don't--I suppose it's because
they have not had my special experiences."

I sat waiting for the boy to go on with it. How plainly he was telling
me of his "special experiences"! He and his creed were not merely in
revolt against the herd of swine; there would be nothing special in
that; I had met people before who were that; but he was tied by honor,
and soon to be tied by the formidable nuptial knot, to a specimen
devotee of the cult. He shouldn't marry her if he really did not want
to, and I could stop it! But how was I to begin spinning the first faint
web of plan how I might stop it, unless he came right out with the whole
thing? I didn't believe he was the man to do that ever, even under the
loosening inspiration of drink. In wine lies truth, no doubt; but within
him, was not moral elegance the bottom truth that would, even in his
cups, keep him a gentleman, and control all such revelations? He might
smash the glasses, but he would not speak of his misgivings as to
Hortense Rieppe.

He began again, "Nor do I believe that a really nice girl would continue
to think as those few do, if she once got safe away from them. Why, my
dear sir," he stretched out his hand in emphasis, "you do not have to
do a