else. Then,"
he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "I shall need a good deal of time
to cultivate accent."

"Don't!" she said. "You are much more charming as you are."

They passed into the drawing-room.

"Are these things to be told?" she asked, with a little suggestion in
her voice.

"I can trust your discretion."

"Even in such circumstances?" she asked. She paused, with a motion of
her fan back towards the room they had left.

"You have taught him a lesson, Lady Lawless. It is rough on him; but he
needs it."

"I hope he will do nothing rash," she said.

"Perhaps he'll write some poetry, and refuse to consider his natural
appetite."

"Will you go and see him now?" she asked. "Immediately. Good night, Lady
Lawless." His big hand swallowed hers in a firm, friendly clasp, and
he shook it once or twice before he parted from her. He met Sir Duke
Lawless in the doorway. They greeted cheerfully, and then Lawless came
up to his wife.

"Well, my dear," he said, with an amused look in his face, "well, what
news?"

She lifted her eyebrows at him.

"Something has happened, Molly, I can see it in your face."

She was very brief. "Gracia Raglan has been conquered; the young man
from Boston has been foolish; and Mr. Vandewaters has lost millions."

"Eh? That's awkward," said Sir Duke.

"Which?" asked his wife.

Vandewaters found Mr. Pride in his bedroom, a waif of melancholy. He
drew a chair up, lighted a cigar, eyed the young man from head to foot,
and then said: "Pride, have you got any backbone? If you have, brace up.
You are ruined. That's about as mild as I can put it."

"You know all?"--said the young man helplessly, his hands clasped
between his knees in aesthetic agony.

"Yes; I know more than you do, as you will find out. You're a nice sort
of man, to come into a man's house, in a strange land, and make love
to his wife. Now, what do you think of yourself? You're a nice
representative of the American, aren't you?"

"I--I didn't mean any harm--I--couldn't help it," replied the stricken
boy.

"O, for God's sake, drop that bib-and-tucker twaddle! Couldn't help it!
Every scoundrel, too weak to face the consequences of his sin, says he
couldn't help it. So help me, Joseph, I'd like to thrash you. Couldn't
help it! Now, sit up in your chair, take this cigar, drink this glass of
whiskey I'm pouring for you, and make up your mind that you're going to
be a man and not a nincompoop--sit still! Don't fly up