in
company that could hardly be called doubtful.

He flushed and came over to me. "I've been an old woman for nearly six
months," he said, with a laugh. "I find I can't stand it any longer.

[Illustration: "IN COMPANY THAT COULD HARDLY BE CALLED DOUBTFUL."]

"After all," he continued, "what is life for but to live? It's only
hypocritical to try and be a thing we are not. And do you know"--he
leant across the table, speaking earnestly--"honestly and seriously, I'm
a better man--I feel it and know it--when I am my natural self than when
I am trying to be an impossible saint."

That was the mistake he made; he always ran to extremes. He thought that
an oath, if it were only big enough, would frighten away Human Nature,
instead of serving only as a challenge to it. Accordingly, each
reformation was more intemperate than the last, to be duly followed by a
greater swing of the pendulum in the opposite direction.

Being now in a thoroughly reckless mood, he went the pace rather hotly.
Then, one evening, without any previous warning, I had a note from him.
"Come round and see me on Thursday. It is my wedding eve."

I went. He was once more "tidying up." All his drawers were open, and on
the table were piled packs of cards, betting books, and much written
paper, as before, all in course of demolition.

I smiled; I could not help it, and, no way abashed, he laughed his usual
hearty, honest laugh.

"I know," he exclaimed gaily, "but this is not the same as the others."

Then, laying his hand on my shoulder, and speaking with the sudden
seriousness that comes so readily to shallow natures, he said, "God has
heard my prayer, old friend. He knows I am weak. He has sent down an
angel out of heaven to help me."

He took her portrait from the mantelpiece and handed it me. It seemed to
me the face of a hard, narrow woman, but, of course, he raved about her.

As he talked, there fluttered to the ground from the heap before him an
old restaurant bill, and, stooping, he picked it up and held it in his
hand, musing.

"Have you ever noticed how the scent of the champagne and the candles
seems to cling to these things?" he said lightly, sniffing carelessly at
it. "I wonder what's become of her?"

"I think I wouldn't think about her at all to-night," I answered.

He loosened his hand, letting the paper fall into the fire.

"My God!" he cried, vehemently, "when I think of all the wrong I have
done--the irreparable, ever-widenin