you?"

"Why not?" she asked mischievously.

"Because, to begin properly, Mrs. Paige is not likely ever to
become interested in me."

"I am heartily glad of it," retorted Camilla. "You'd forget her in
a week,"

"That's more than forty-eight hours," he said, laughing. "You're
flattering me now."

"Anyway," said Camilla, "I don't see why everybody that knows her
isn't mad about Ailsa Paige. She has _such_ high principles, such
ideals, such wonderful aspirations--" She clasped her hands
sentimentally: "At times, Phil, she seems too ethereal, scarcely of
earth--and yet I breakfasted with her and she ate twice as much as
I did. _How_ does she keep that glorious figure!"

Plumpness was the bane and terror of Camilla's life. Her smooth,
suave white skin was glossy and tight; distracting curves,
entrancing contours characterised her now; but her full red lips
fairly trembled as she gazed at her parents' portraits in her
bedroom, for they had both been of a florid texture and full habit;
and she had now long refused sugar and the comforts of sweetmeats
dear to the palate of her age and sex. And mostly was this
self-denial practised for the sake of a young and unobservant
friend, one Stephen Craig, who had so far evinced no unusual
inclination for her, or for anything except cigars and masculine
society of his own age and condition.

She managed to get Philip Berkley to talk about Stephen, which
ingenuity soothed her. But Philip was becoming bored, and he
presently escaped to retrace his steps up Broadway, up Fifth
Avenue, and then west to the exceedingly modest lodgings whither
fate and misfortune had wafted him.

On the way he passed Colonel Arran's big double house with a sullen
and sidelong scowl, and continued onward with a shrug. But he
smiled no more to himself.

Burgess was in the room, cross-legged on the floor, ironing out his
master's best coat.

"What the devil are you about," said Philip ungraciously. "Get up.
I need what floor I've got to stand on."

Burgess obediently laid the board and the coat on a trunk and
continued ironing; and Philip scowled at him askance.

"Why don't you enlist?" he said. "Every car-driver, stage-driver,
hackman, and racing-tout can become major-generals if they yell
loud enough."

Burgess continued ironing, then stole a glance at his master.

"Are you thinking of enlisting, sir?"

"No; I can't pass the examination for lung power. By the way," he
added, la