was nothing then of calm and deliberate enjoyment; and these
escapades grew more and more rare as the warnings of his constitution
spoke more imperiously.

Among the very few traits of amiability that Major Keene had ever
displayed, were the sacrifices of personal convenience he would make for
Harry Molyneux. He had given up a good many engagements to see his
comrade through that especial hour; and, if the day had left any
available geniality in him, it was sure to come out then. Upon this
occasion, however, he was remarkably silent, and answered several times
at random as if his thoughts were roving elsewhere: they were not
unpleasant ones, apparently, for he smiled twice or thrice to himself,
much less icily than usual. At last he spoke abruptly, after a long
pause--Miss Tresilyan's name had not once been mentioned--"Hal, you know
that old hackneyed phrase, about 'a woman to die for?' I think we have
seen one to-day who is worth living for; which is saying a good deal
more."

"You like her, then?" Molyneux asked.

"Yes--I--like--her." The words came out as if each one had been weighed
to a grain; and his lip put on that curious smile once more.

Harry did not feel quite satisfied. He would have preferred hearing
more, and inferring less; but acting upon his invariable rose-colored
principle, he would not admit any disagreeable surmises, and went to bed
under the impression that "it was all right," and that Royston was in a
fair way toward being repaid for the sacrifices he had made to
friendship.

CHAPTER VII.

The Saturday night is waning, but Molyneux shows no signs of moving yet
from Keene's apartments. He has been a model of prudence though so far,
as to his drinks, and, in good truth, their companion is not amusing, or
instructive, or convivial enough, to tempt or to excuse transgression.

Dick Tresilyan looks about twenty-five, strongly and somewhat heavily
built; rather over the middle height, even with the decided stoop of his
broad, round shoulders. He carries far too much flesh to please a
professional eye, and by the time he is fifty will be very unwieldy; but
there is more activity in him than might be supposed, and he walks
strongly and well, as you would find if you tried to keep pace with him
through the turnips on a sultry September day. His face, without a
pretension to beauty in itself, suggests it--just the face that makes
you say, "that man must have a handsome sister;" indeed, it b