er anguish. Himself the quarry of
all Mayfair's wise virgins, he had always--so far as he thought of
the matter at all--suspected that Nellie's death was due to thwarted
ambition. But to-night, while he told Oover about her, he could see
into her soul. Nor did he pity her. She had loved. She had known the
one thing worth living for--and dying for. She, as she went down to the
mill-pond, had felt just that ecstasy of self-sacrifice which he himself
had felt to-day and would feel to-morrow. And for a while, too--for a
full year--she had known the joy of being loved, had been for Greddon
"the fairest witch that ever was or will be." He could not agree with
Oover's long disquisition on her sufferings. And, glancing at her
well-remembered miniature, he wondered just what it was in her that had
captivated Greddon. He was in that blest state when a man cannot believe
the earth has been trodden by any really beautiful or desirable lady
save the lady of his own heart.

The moment had come for the removal of the table-cloth. The mahogany of
the Junta was laid bare--a clear dark lake, anon to reflect in its still
and ruddy depths the candelabras and the fruit-cradles, the slender
glasses and the stout old decanters, the forfeit-box and the snuff-box,
and other paraphernalia of the dignity of dessert. Lucidly, and
unwaveringly inverted in the depths these good things stood; and, so
soon as the wine had made its circuit, the Duke rose and with uplifted
glass proposed the first of the two toasts traditional to the Junta.
"Gentlemen, I give you Church and State."

The toast having been honoured by all--and by none with a richer
reverence than by Oover, despite his passionate mental reservation in
favour of Pittsburg-Anabaptism and the Republican Ideal--the snuff-box
was handed round, and fruit was eaten.

Presently, when the wine had gone round again, the Duke rose and with
uplifted glass said "Gentlemen, I give you--" and there halted.
Silent, frowning, flushed, he stood for a few moments, and then, with
a deliberate gesture, tilted his glass and let fall the wine to the
carpet. "No," he said, looking round the table, "I cannot give you
Nellie O'Mora."

"Why not?" gasped Sir John Marraby.

"You have a right to ask that," said the Duke, still standing. "I can
only say that my conscience is stronger than my sense of what is due to
the customs of the club. Nellie O'Mora," he said, passing his hand over
his brow, "may have been in