for the departure of Ulysses, and taking up with such a
dreamy-headed shadow of a man as our friend Dix. The end of the Mordaunt
Prince story is that he soon grew too much for the widow, who has
pensioned him off, and now he is drinking himself to death in Naples."

"Emmy Oldrieve! Good God, is it possible?" cried Sypher, absently pushing
aside the dish the waiter handed him.

Rattenden carefully helped himself to partridge and orange salad.

"It's not only possible, but unquestionable fact. You see," he added
complacently, "nothing can happen without its coming sooner or later to me.
My informant was staying at the hotel all the time. You will allow me to
vouch absolutely for her veracity."

Sypher did not speak for some moments. The large dining-room with its
portraits of self-conscious statesmen faded away and became a little street
in Paris, one side in shade and the other baking in the sun; and at a
little iron table sat a brown and indiscreet Zouave and Septimus Dix, pale,
indecisive, with a wistful appeal in his washed-out blue eyes. Suddenly he
regained consciousness, and, more for the sake of covering his loss of
self-possession than for that of eating, he recalled the waiter and put
some partridge on his plate. Then he looked across the table at his guest
and said very sternly:

"I look to you to prevent this story going any further."

"I've already made it my duty to do so," said Rattenden.

Sypher helped his guest to wine.

"I hope you like this Roederer," said he. "It's the only exquisite wine in
the club, and unfortunately there are not more than a few bottles left. I
had seven dozen of the same _cuvee_ in my cellar at Priory Park--if
anything, in better condition. I had to sell it with the rest of the things
when I gave up the house. It went to my heart. Champagne is the only wine
I understand. There was a time when it stood as a symbol to me of the
unattainable. Now that I can drink it when I will, I know that all the laws
of philosophy forbid its having any attraction for me. Thank heaven I'm not
dyspeptic enough in soul to be a philosopher and I'm grateful for my
aspirations. I cultivated my taste for champagne out of sheer gratitude."

"Any wise man," said Rattenden, "can realize his dreams. It takes something
much higher than wisdom to enjoy the realization."

"What is that?"

"The heart of a child," said Rattenden. He smiled in his inscrutable way
behind his thick lenses, and sipped his