itself by an even worse plague than the Black Death; and the
remedy for that is not Salvarsan, but sound moral hygiene, the
first foundation of which is the discontinuance of our habit of
telling not only the comparatively harmless lies that we know we
ought not to tell, but the ruinous lies that we foolishly think
we ought to tell.



OVERRULED.

A lady and gentleman are sitting together on a chesterfield in a
retired corner of the lounge of a seaside hotel. It is a summer
night: the French window behind them stands open. The terrace
without overlooks a moonlit harbor. The lounge is dark. The
chesterfield, upholstered in silver grey, and the two figures on
it in evening dress, catch the light from an arc lamp somewhere;
but the walls, covered with a dark green paper, are in gloom.
There are two stray chairs, one on each side. On the gentleman's
right, behind him up near the window, is an unused fireplace.
Opposite it on the lady's left is a door. The gentleman is on the
lady's right.

The lady is very attractive, with a musical voice and soft
appealing manners. She is young: that is, one feels sure that she
is under thirty-five and over twenty-four. The gentleman does not
look much older. He is rather handsome, and has ventured as far
in the direction of poetic dandyism in the arrangement of his
hair as any man who is not a professional artist can afford to in
England. He is obviously very much in love with the lady, and is,