Colonel Mostyn, the keen, cynical man of the world, was, perhaps, the
best companion he could have had. But the colonel had many anxious
thoughts over him. At last an idea struck him.

"The finest thing that could happen to Basil would be a very decided
flirtation with a beautiful, worldly woman, who would laugh him out of
these fantastic ideas and make a modern man of him."

So thought the colonel, and so has thought many a one before him, little
dreaming of the danger of playing with fire.

But Basil did not seem to care much for ladies' society. He went to two
or three grand balls and pronounced them stupid, on hearing which, the
colonel raised his eyes and hands in horror.

"A young man of twenty who finds a ball stupid is past hope," he said.

There had been a great flutter in the dovecotes when it was known that
Basil Carruthers, the heir of Ulverston, son of the great statesman, a
young man whose income was quite twenty thousand per annum, besides the
savings of a long minority, was in London--free, disengaged, and, as a
matter of course, wanting a wife. Invitations literally poured in upon
him--he accepted them at first, but soon grew tired.

"A tres dansantes at Lady Cecilia Gorton's," he said, holding out an
invitation card at arm's length. "Go, if you like, colonel. I do not
care for it."

The colonel was engrossed in the buttering of his roll, an operation