Francis Markrute, left alone, leant back in his chair and puffed his
cigar calmly while he mused.

What strange things were women! Any man could manage them if only he
reckoned with their temperaments when dealing with them, and paid no
heed to their actual words. Francis Markrute was a philosopher. A number
of the shelves of this, his library, were filled with works on the
subject of philosophy, and a well-thumbed volume of the fragments of
Epicurus lay on a table by his side. He picked it up now and read: "He
who wastes his youth on high feeding, on wine, on women, forgets that he
is like a man who wears out his overcoat in the summer." He had not
wasted his youth either on wine or women, only he had studied both, and
their effects upon the thing which, until lately, had interested him
most in the world--himself. They could both be used to the greatest
advantage and pleasure by a man who apprehended things he knew.

Then he turned to the _Morning Post_ which was on a low stand near, and
he read again a paragraph which had pleased him at breakfast:

"The Duke of Glastonbury and Lady Ethelrida Montfitchet entertained at
dinner last night a small party at Glastonbury House, among the guests
being--" and here he skipped some high-sounding titles and let his eye
feast upon his own name, "Mr. Francis Markrute."

Then he smiled and gazed into the fire, and no one would have recognized
his hard, blue eyes, as he said softly:

"Ethelrida! _belle et blonde!_"