it. Perhaps a sense, dim-recognized,
that the cheapening of ideals by frequent draughts at wayside fountains
lessens the value and appreciation of the ultimate prize. Men find it
hard to resist a drink. If they could look forward with assurance to
the final realization of their hopes there would be fewer loveless
marriages, fewer abandoned maidens, fewer degenerate men. But they feel
that youth slips by--the ideal woman is hard to find, harder to win: why
not sip the pleasant fountain that will slake them for a moment? So,
_vogue la galere_! We will have one swig before we die--a good swig to
drown regret: if we find it is not Veuve Clicquot but only muddy ale, at
least we can get drunk on one as well as the other.

These profound reflections did not present themselves so lucidly to
Lionel as to the temperate reader who never gets drunk--never so much as
sips. He comprehended them vaguely, unconsciously almost, in the
thought, "Oh, damn! she's not Beatrice--she's not Beatrice--I can't." A
man of unsettled purpose, you perceive, who had mapped his course of
pleasure and then forsaken it, vacillating, lukewarm, halting between
two opinions. "The evil that I would, I do not!" he thought in humorous
astonishment at himself; and then aloud, "I am at a loss for words."

He felt rather a fool, but was pleased to note that Miss Arkwright
looked neither ill-at-ease nor disappointed. He searched her countenance
for a hint of contempt, but found none. Dropping her hands with an
unaffected laugh she said, "You are duller than I thought, Mr. Mortimer.
Come! let us go and see if they have brought tea out yet." They turned,
and suddenly her face flushed scarlet. She drew in her breath sharply.
Forbes was coming across the lawn, followed by the ambassador.

She ran forward and shook hands, murmuring something Lionel did not
hear. Then, as Forbes retired, she introduced the two men: "Mr.
Mortimer--Mr. Beckett." Lionel surveyed the ambassador with curiosity,
his late-lulled suspicions once more awake. What was he doing here? Mr.
Beckett returned the scrutiny something in the manner of a jealous lover
who would like an explanation of a stranger's presence. But he was a
diplomatic gentleman, and it was with a slight laugh, merry and sincere,
that he held out his hand.

"We have met before," he said in a friendly fashion, "but under less
happy auspices. Mr. Mortimer, you saw me under a cloud. I was
exceedingly rude. You who are a golfer