e's wooing most unorthodox, most unseemly i' faith!"

"But natural, Ben," retorted Dalroyd, "women love or hate as the wind
bloweth. Your loving woman is very well though apt to cloy, but your
hater--O Ben! Besides, all women love a little force--to force 'em
willing is child's play, to force 'em hating--ah Ben, that methinks is
man's play."

"Out on you, sir!" exclaimed Sir Benjamin. "Is it thus you'd win our
incomparable, Our Admirable Betty?" Mr. Dalroyd threw down his cards
and leaning back in his chair surveyed the indignant Sir Benjamin with
his fleeting smile.

"She is a woman, Ben, and therefore to be won one way or t'other." And
here once again his keen gaze rested momentarily on the Major's passive
figure. As for Sir Benjamin, his face grew purple, his great peruke
seemed to bristle again.

"Enough sir!" he cried, "Are we satyrs, hairy and unpolished, to creep,
to crouch, to win by forceful fury what trembling beauty would deny? I
say no sir--I say the day of such is long gone by I--I appeal to Major
d'Arcy!"

The Major, being thus addressed, blew forth a cloud of smoke, fanned it
away with his hand and spoke in his measured, placid tones:

"I fear sir, even in these days satyrs walk among us now and then
though indeed they have covered their hairy and unpolished hides 'neath
velvets and fine linen and go a-satyrizing delicately pulvilled. Yet
woman, I take it, hath been granted eyes to see the brute 'neath all
his dainty trappings."

Here there fell a moment's silence, for the company, quick to sense the
sudden tenseness in the air, sat in rapt expectation of what was to be;
perceiving which Mr. Dalroyd smiled again and the Major went on
smoking. At last, when he judged the silence had endured long enough,
Mr. Dalroyd spoke:

"Major d'Arcy, Ben's simile is perchance a little harsh, for he would
have us all satyrs, in that at some time or other, every man doth seek,
pursue and hunt the lovely sex to his own selfish end. Even you
yourself, I dare swear, have dreamed dreams, have beheld a vision of
some dainty beauty you would fain possess. I have, I do confess. Now,
doth she yield--well and good! Doth she fly us, we pursue. And do we
catch her--well, hate and love are kindred passions, nay indeed, hate
is love's refinement, though both are passing moods. Indeed some women
are preferable in the hating moods--to know the woman in one's arms
hates one, there, sir, so 'tis said, is the very