g any good, but I see no prospect
of anything better."

Ridokanaki frowned, staring at Woodville rather rudely, and then said:
"Of course we're both thinking of the same thing. I mean the same lady."

"Really, Mr. Ridokanaki, I have no idea what you are thinking about. But
there is no lady who can possibly concern _our_ conversation."

Ridokanaki looked at the clock. It immediately struck ten, tactfully, in
a clear subdued tone.

"But"--he spoke rather impatiently--"with all reverence and the most
distant respect in the world, there's no reason why I shouldn't speak of
the lady. I'm sorry, as you seem to dislike it, but I'm afraid I have no
time for fencing now."

Frank was silent.

"Every day," said Ridokanaki in an undertone, "you see that beautiful
girl. You live under the same roof. I see her only occasionally, but I
understand your feelings." He laughed harshly. "I have the same--as you
know."

"Your sentiments, no doubt, do you the greatest possible honour, Mr.
Ridokanaki. Mine are those of old friendship."

"Indeed! Well! mine aren't! Can't you see I'm trying to play the game?"
He spoke almost coarsely. Woodville liked him better. There was a pause.

"Perhaps," continued the host, "you _think_ you only want her
friendship, but I don't suppose _she_ thinks so. In reality, of course,
you want her."

"Really, Mr. Ridokanaki----!"

"Listen, listen! You can't marry her in your present position. I could
in mine, but she will never like me while you're there--possibly never.
At my best I never had what the French call _le don de plaire aux
dames_. Not that age matters, nor ugliness. I haven't the knack. I never
had. I bore women. I always did. In that I've always failed, and know
it. And it's the only thing I ever cared about. My failure is my
tragedy." He smiled. "You have all the advantages on your side, Mr.
Woodville. But you're both young, and for that very reason any fancy
that may have sprung up _might_ be forgotten. With me----"

Woodville looked at him. No, it was not possible to be jealous of his
host. Whatever truth there was about his past failure, he could never
fascinate Sylvia. She appreciated too fully the plastic side of life;
she was a romanticist, and therefore she attached immense importance to
the material. (Are not all romantic heroes and heroines beautiful to
look at, and always either beautifully or picturesquely dressed?) Sylvia
cared far more about her own admiration for a man tha