he refused to be disillusioned. I told him that on the occasion of my
last visit to the Megatherium--Thackeray, I explained--a Royal
Academician, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, reading desolate
"The Hibbert Journal" in the smoking-room, embraced me as fondly as the
austerity of the place permitted and related a non-drawing-room story
which was current at my preparatory school--and that in the library I
ran into an equally desolate, though even less familiar Archdeacon, who
seized me, like the Ancient Mariner, and never let me go until he had
impressed upon my mind the name and address of the only man in London
who could cut clerical gaiters. But the simple child of sugar would have
his way. There was but one Valhalla in London, and it was built by
Decimus Burton.

After that we joined the ladies for an unimportant half hour or so, and
then Barbara and I took our leave. As we were motoring home--we live
some thirty miles out of London--we discussed the dinner party,
according to the way of married folks, home-bound after a feast, and I
mentioned the trivial incident of Adrian and the broken glass. Why
should his face have been so haggard when he had everything to make him
happy?

"He was thinking of Mr. Jornicroft's previous insulting behaviour."

"How do you know?"

"He told me," said Barbara.

"I never knew Adrian to be seriously vindictive," said I.

"It strikes me, my dear," replied Barbara, taking my hand, "that you are