shady and questionable walks of life. But he had an object
still in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object was
Mabel Langton.

He had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her side
towards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking to
an occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcome
and disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in him
a state of mind as nearly approaching love as he was capable of.

He longed for the time when his wounded pride would be salved by the
consciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this wayward
nature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights and
disdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved to
conquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he had
found few natures capable of resisting him long after he had set
himself seriously to subdue them.

But Mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. For some time
after the loss of the 'Mangalore' she had been depressed and silent to
a degree which persuaded Caffyn that his old jealousy of Holroyd was
well-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while she
was willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always the
suggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his part
to lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure to
be adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied.

Quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for the
better; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown more
sympathy and interest in his doings. This was since his one success at
the _matinee_, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at last
recognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over.

He would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, which
was this. At the _matinee_ Mabel had certainly been at first surprised
almost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on Caffyn's
part. But as the piece went on, she could not resist an impression
that this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of his
secret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hidden
character of the man as though it had been written on him in
sympathetic ink.

As she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, she
began to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. Had they
worked out