ile from the husks of life,
the peace which happier mortals find lying like manna each morn upon
the meadows."

"Well," I continued, "enough of the abstract; let us have another
drink, and tell me what you propose to do."

"Poor Sylvia!" sighed Orlando.

"Shall I tell you about Sylvia?" I said. "On second thoughts, I won't.
It would hardly be fair play; but this, I may say, relying on your
honour, that if you were to come to my hotel, I could show you
indisputable proof that I know at least as much about Sylvia Joy as
even such a privileged intimate as yourself."

"It is strange, then, that she never recognised you just now," he
retorted, with forlorn alertness.

"Of course she didn't. How young you are! It is rather too bad of a
woman of Sylvia's experience."

"And I've bought our passages for to-morrow. I cannot let her go
without some sort of good-bye."

"Give the tickets to me. I can make use of them. How much are they?
Let's see."

The calculation made and the money passed across, I said abruptly,--

"Now supposing we go and see your wife."

"You have saved my life," he said hoarsely, pressing my hand as we rose.

"I don't know about that," I said inwardly; "but I do hope I have saved
your wife."

As I thought of that, a fear occurred to me.

"Look here," I said, as we strolled towards the Twelve Golden-Haired,
"I hope you have no silly notions about confession, about telling the
literal truth and so on. Because I want you to promise me that you will
lie stoutly to your wife about Sylvia Joy. You must swear the whole
thing has been platonic. It's the only chance for your happiness.
Your wife, no doubt, will lure you on to confession by saying that she
doesn't mind this, that, and the other, so long as you don't keep it
from her; and no doubt she will mean it till you have confessed. But,
however good their theories, women by nature cannot help confusing body
and soul, and what to a man is a mere fancy of the senses, to them is a
spiritual tragedy. Promise me to lie stoutly on this point. It is, I
repeat, the only chance for your future happiness. As has been wisely
said, a lie in time saves nine; and such a lie as I advise is but one
of the higher forms of truth. Such lying, indeed, is the art of
telling the truth. The truth is that you love her body, soul, and
spirit; any accidental matter which should tend to make her doubt that
would be the only real lie. Promise me, won't you?"

"Y