to many things
commonly counted chief matters of life. One of these was religion;
another was woman. His punctuality at church at the head of Rosemont's
cadets was so obviously perfunctory as to be without a stain of
hypocrisy. Yet he never vaunted his scepticism, but only let it exhale
from him in interrogative insinuations that the premises and maxims of
religion were refuted by the outcome of the war. To woman his heart was
as hard, cold, and polished as celluloid. Only when pressed did he admit
that he regarded her as an insipid necessity. One has to have a female
parent in order to get into this world--no gentleman admitted without a
lady; and when one goes out of it again, it is good to leave children so
as to keep the great unwashed from getting one's property.
Property!--humph! he or his father, at least--he became silent.

He often saw Mrs. March in church, yet kept his heart. But one night a
stereoptican lecture was given in Suez. In Mrs. March's opinion such
things, unlike the deadly theatre, were harmful only when carried to
excess. To keep John from carrying this one to excess--that is, from
going to it with anybody else--she went with him, and they "happened"--I
suppose an agnostic would say--to sit next to Dinwiddie Pettigrew. John
being in a silent mood Daphne and Dinwiddie found time for much
conversation. The hour fixed for the lecture was half-past seven.
Promptly about half-past eight the audience began to arrive. At a
quarter of nine it was growing numerous.

"Oh! no," said General Halliday to the lecturer, "don't you fret about
them going home; they'll stay like the yellow fever"--and punctually
somewhere about nine "The Great Love Stories of History" began to be
told, and luminously pictured on a white cotton full moon.

With lights turned low and everybody enjoined to converse only in
softest whispers, the conditions for spontaneous combustion were
complete in many bosoms, and at the close of the entertainment Daphne
Dalrymple, her own asbestos affections warmed, but not ignited, walked
away with the celluloid heart of Dinwiddie Pettigrew in a light blaze.

XXXV.

A WIDOW'S ULTIMATUM

At the time of which we would here speak the lover had made one call at
Widewood, but had not met sufficient encouragement to embolden him to
ask that the lovee would give, oh, give him back a heart so damaged by
fire, as to be worthless except to the thief; though his manner was rank
with hints that