ed, taking up his
own defence; "the point is not that men are more inconstant than women,
but that women have more excuse for inconstancy. If I remember
correctly, Desmond, in a letter to Rosamond, says: 'Inconstancy in a
woman, because of the present social conditions, is often pardonable. In
a man, nothing is more despicable.' I think that is so. I believe that
a man should stick by the woman to whom he has given his word as closely
as he sticks by his friends."

"Ah!" exclaimed the aggressive second voice, "that is all very well. But
how about the woman to whom he has not given his word? Unfortunately,
the present social conditions allow a man to go pretty far without a
definite statement."

At this I could not refrain from looking at Miss Trevor. She was bending
over her knitting and had broken her thread.

"It is presumption for a man to speak without some foundation," said the
Celebrity, "and wrong unless he is sure of himself."

"But you must admit," the second voice continued, "that a man has no
right to amuse himself with a woman, and give her every reason to believe
he is going to marry her save the only manly and substantial one. And
yet that is something which happens every day. What do you think of a
man who deserts a woman under those conditions?"

"He is a detestable dog, of course," declared the Celebrity.

And the cock in the inn yard was silent.

"I should love to be able to quote from a book at will," said the
quieting voice, for the sake of putting an end to an argument which bid
fair to become disagreeable. "How do you manage to do it?"

"It was simply a passage that stuck in my mind," he answered modestly;
"when I read a book I pick them up just as a roller picks up a sod here
and there as it moves over the lawn."

"I should think you might write, Mr. Allen, you have such an original way
of putting things!"

"I have thought of it," returned the Celebrity, "and I may, some fine
day."

Wherewith he thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered off with
equanimity undisturbed, apparently unaware of the impression he had left
behind him. And the Fifth Reader story popped into my head of good King
William (or King Frederick, I forgot which), who had a royal fancy for
laying aside the gayeties of the court and straying incognito among his
plainer subjects, but whose princely origin was invariably detected in
spite of any disguise his Majesty could invent.

CHAPTER VII

I experi