ooper had once even meditated Mike's
conversion, and Mike never missed an opportunity of telling some
story which he deemed destructive of Cooper's faith. His faith was
to him what a microscope is to a scientist, and it enabled him to
discover the finest characteristics in the souls of bar-girls, chorus
girls, and prostitutes; and even when he fell, and they fell, his
belief in their virtue and the nobility of their womanly instincts
remained unshaken.

Mike had just finished a most racy story concerning his first
introduction to a certain countess. Cooper had listened in silence,
but when Mike turned at the end of his tale and asked him what he
thought of his conduct, Cooper rose from his chair.

"I think you behaved like a blackguard."

In a moment Mike was aware he had put himself in the wrong--the story
about the countess could not be told except to his destruction in any
language except his own, and he must therefore forbear to strike
Cooper and swallow the insult.

"You ass, get out; I can't quarrel with you on such a subject."

The embarrassment was increased by Cooper calling to Silk and asking
if he were coming with him. The prudent Silk felt that to stay was to
signify his approval of Mike's conduct in the case of the indiscreet
countess. To leave with Cooper was to write himself down a prig,
expose himself to the sarcasm of several past masters in the art of
gibing, and to make in addition several powerful enemies. But the
instinct not to compromise himself in any issue did not desert him,
and rushing after Cooper he attempted the peace-maker. He knew the
attempt would mean no more than some hustling in the doorway, and
some ineffectual protestation, and he returned a few minutes after to
join in the ridicule heaped upon the unfortunate Cooper, and to vow
inwardly that this was his last evening in Bohemia.

By the piano, smoking a clay pipe, there sat a large, rough, strong
man. His beard was bristly and flame-coloured, his face was crimson
and pimply; lion-like locks hung in profusion about the collar of his
shabby jacket. His linen was torn and thin; crumpled was the necktie,
and nearly untied, and the trousers were worn and frayed, and the
boots heavy. He looked as if he could have carried a trunk
excellently well, but as that thought struck you your eyes fell upon
his hands, which were the long, feminine-shaped hands generally found
in those of naturally artistic temperament, nearly always in those