in her own somewhat selfish fancies. So she made no remark upon them; only said she would come over on the chance of finding him another evening, and then, with a farewell kiss, departed. Departed, feeling pleased with herself in that she had given a whole hour to the cheering up of dear, lonely Delicia! This, besides having prepared the way at the same time for a little amusement for herself during these dull, foggy days, when every one else was out of town. So she went down-stairs, feeling and looking radiant; and as she stood beneath the lamp, wrapping her furs about her, the glow from above illumining the red brown of her hair, and deepening the colour of her eyes, she of a sudden became aware that a man was standing in the more remote corner of the hall, divesting himself of a greatcoat, looking earnestly at her.

All of which she noticed, as girls have a way of noticing these things, letting no sign thereof appear as she stepped forth daintily out into the darkness. But once alone inside the cab that had been summoned to bear her homewards, "The artist, of course," she said; "and he is good-looking, though I didn't think Delicia and I should ever have agreed on such a subject." A minute later her lips curved into a well-satisfied smile as she recalled the admiring gaze she had seen that same good-looking man fix upon her.

16

CHAPTER II.

THE MAN.

"You had better sail in the maddest storm that ever troubled your sea of life, than lie on the sea, and drift with every wind that chooses to blow."

THERE is a certain class of women whom the novelist and the world have alike agreed, notwithstanding many serious and grave faults, to judge leniently. The woman we speak of is always possessed of a pleasing exterior, and has many qualities that endear her to those about her. She is affectionate and clinging, and nearly always proves successful in attracting some one to stake his life's hopes on winning her for his own.

Once won, granted that the man be possessed of ordinary common-sense, she is won for ever, from the mere fact that it would never enter into her head to look beyond her home circle. It is the love, not the lover, that is necessary to her existence.

So she goes through life a woman much wrapped up in house and husband and children: a very happy, if perhaps a somewhat dull household, to casual observers. And the husband, if left alone,

would never discover that what he values as true coin is merely all that a shallow, affectionate disposition has to offer in lieu thereof.

But if, instead of a speedy wooing, a wedding, and a peaceable after-life, this nature has to combat with difficulties-say, for instance, a doubt between two suitors or if her faithfulness should be tried by long separation, then the want of stamina must make itself apparent.

In the first instance, she would of a certainty espouse the one whose will, whether for good or evil, is the stronger; in the other, she would desert the absent-if not actually, at least in thought— for the one who is by her side, whoever that one may be.

These women are easily won, for they demand so little. It is the demonstrativeness of love they require, not the love itself. So outsiders who do not see very deep decide they are sweet and gentle, although, perchance, not strong-minded or clever, and they rarely, if ever, remain unmarried.

Now let us reverse the picture, and put a man in the place of the woman. "An unpleasing portrait," nearly every one will exclaim. Yet, perhaps, though such a one has been by competent judges determined to lie beyond the pale of mild criticism, and though the world in general has not a good word to say in his favour, yet for all that, surely it is not quite fair that he should get all the reproaches, and the woman escape scot-free.

By the novelist he is simply described as "weak," and such a man finds no pity shown him from lady

B

readers. A weak man—be he weak either in mind or body is to them, and indeed to most people, simply despicable.

In real life, however, it is often otherwise. By men such a man might be a little pitied, a little despised; but often he is envied, because with women he would nearly always prove irresistible, such is the perversity of the sex.

"A great flirt," they might say of him, “but very fascinating."

And in this—in the portion of their verdict that bore reference to his flirting propensities - they would be entirely mistaken. For such a man would never wish to flirt; his conduct might bear a resemblance to the leading principles of that art, but it would be quite unintentional on his part.

He would take small trouble to please any one; but the woman who would do so would soon find that if she so considered it she had secured a prize. Afterwards-well, it would be afterwards that the different effects of the same causes in a man and a woman would make themselves apparent. For the man cannot, whatever may be his vocation in life, be shut up out of the way of temptation, with a nursery for a safe outlet. Notwithstanding the fact of his possessing a disposition that most unfits him to cope with temptation, he must go forth and dare the encounter; and it is the result of that encounter which probably determines his whole after-life.

Of this type was Cyril Stevens. Easily influenced, easily impressed; taking, as it were, a faint reflection from whatever was the strongest colouring

about him. Let me try to sketch him as he leans back in Miss Mainwaring's comfortable arm-chair, in the light of the newly-lit lamp.

A slight, well-made man of average height, with a face rather too thin for actual beauty, but an interesting face nevertheless, with its sallow complexion and dark-eyes. All the features, taken separately, are nearly perfect; and yet, considered as a whole, the effect is not quite pleasing. It may be that the eyes lack a little fire and brilliance, and that the droop of the lids is suggestive of effeminacy; or it may be that the delicate mouth, the lines of which tell of wit and culture when in repose, has a habit when the owner is speaking of losing that expression, and assuming in its stead one merely of gentleness-gentleness more suited to a woman's weakness than a man's strength. Somehow, whatever the cause may be, the features are out of keeping with the expression. The outline is, as it were, clearly and well drawn, but the finish which would render the picture perfect is lacking.

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On his entrance Delicia had risen and greeted him quietly, gracefully, as she did everything; and with the air of one who found himself at home he drew an arm-chair up to the fire, saying as he did So, Who was the young lady I saw in the hall just now? Miss Arbuthnot? Ah, I thought so. How pretty she is! I saw her in a fortunate way too. She was standing just beneath the lamp, and the light from above fell full upon her hair-beautiful hair it seemed to me."