r-boy, who
abused him. Whereupon Deulin turned and took off his hat and apologized.

"Yes," he said, ignoring the incident, "I would not presume to dictate.
All I should do would be to present Wanda to her. 'Here is a girl who
has the misfortune to be a Bukaty; who has no mother; who has a father
who is a plotter and an old ruffian--a Polish noble, in fact--and a
brother who is an enthusiast, and as brave as only a prince can be.' I
should say, 'You see that circumstances have thrown this girl upon the
world, practically alone--on the hard, hard upper-class world--with only
one heart to break. It is only men who have a whole row of hearts on a
shelf, and, when one is broken, they take down another, made, perhaps,
of ambition, or sport, or the love of a different sort of woman--and,
vogue la galere, they go on just as well as they did before.'"

"And my accomplished aunt . . ." suggested Cartoner.

"Would laugh at me, I know that. I would rather have Lady Orlay's laugh
than another woman's tears. And so would you; for you are a man of
common-sense, though deadly dull in conversation."

As if to prove the truth of this assertion, Deulin was himself silent
until they had ascended St. James's Street and turned to the left in
Piccadilly; and, sure enough, Cartoner had nothing to say. At last
he broke the silence, and made it evident that he had been placidly
following the stream of his own thoughts.

"Who is Joseph P. Mangles?" he asked, in his semi-inaudible monotone.

"An American gentleman--the word is applicable in its best sense--who
for his sins, or the sins of his forefathers, has been visited with the
most terrible sister a man ever had."

"So much I know."

Deulin turned and looked at his companion.

"Then you have met him--that puts another complexion on your question."

"I have just crossed the Atlantic in the next chair to him."

"And that is all you know about him?"

Cartoner nodded.

"Then Joseph P. Mangles is getting on."

"What is he?" repeated Cartoner.

"He is in the service of his country, my friend, like any other poor
devil--like you or me, for instance. He spends half of his time kicking
his heels in New York, or wherever they kick their heels in America.
The rest of his time he is risking his health, or possibly his neck,
wherever it may please the fates to send him. If he had been properly
trained, he might have done something, that Joseph P. Mangles; for he
can hold his tongue. But