ys? Won't
you?"

All his life he had found a difficulty in understanding women--the
significance of their words, the precise translation of their glances,
and their motives generally. He had nourished his experience on French
novels; he had corrected it by various friendships; he had crowned it
with the confession that one could never tell what the sex meant one way
or the other. But this fact remained--he was a coxcomb, and, whenever he
owned himself puzzled, it was on a single ground only--how seriously was
the lady at stake affected by his charms? Feeling, as he did, the
infinite inequality that existed between men, and conscious of his own
reputation as a leader among them, it was not in his conscience to
encourage any woman whom he did not find especially attractive or
useful. Why spoil her chances? Why make her discontented with the
average male creature? Had Sara written to him in ordinary
circumstances, inviting him, after some months of mutual coldness, to
lunch, he would have replied, with sorrowful dignity, that it was wiser
to leave things as they were. But the case had altered. The future
Duchess of Marshire was a personage. He made no secret of his admiration
for all people of high rank. They represented influence and traditions;
what was more, they could exercise a certain power, and introduce, when
necessary, the ideas upon which fresh traditions could be based. A
friend like Sara de Treverell with her new honours made life itself
more rich to him. When he remembered that she was young, handsome,
enthusiastic, and impulsive, his pleasure thrilled into something of
genuine passion. He told himself that he had always been fond of the
girl; that hundreds of times he had felt the hardness of his scrupulous
position where she was concerned. If he had been asked what especially
he conceived his own duty to be now, he would have said that it was not
for him to hang back when she showed a coming spirit. But this was not
all. He was a gamester; he was ambitious.

"This is very odd," said he, reading Sara's note for the second time,
"very odd. There's no harm in showing it to you, because there is
nothing in it."

He gave it to his friend, and ate, pleasantly, while Orange glanced down
the page. His soul's wish was to be left alone. The effort of forcing
himself--not to affect but honestly to feel--an interest in Reckage's
conversation had proved successful. He had indeed put aside his own
thoughts, and follow