perfectly regulated theatre, in company with a brother officer; and when
they had done duty before the scenes for a space of time, they lounged
behind to disenchant themselves, in obedience to that precocious cynicism
which is the young man's extra-Luxury. The first figure that caught
Wilfrid's attention there was Mr. Pericles, in a white overcoat,
stretched along a sofa--his eyelids being down, though his eyes were
evidently vigilant beneath. A titter of ladies present told of some
recent interesting commotion.

"Only a row between that rich Greek fellow who gave the supper, and
Marion," a vivacious dame explained to Wilfrid. "She's in one of her
jealous fits; she'd be jealous if her poodle-dog went on its hind-legs to
anybody else."

"Poodle, by Jove!" said Wilfrid. "Pericles himself looks like an
elongated poodle shaved up to his moustache. Look at him. And he plays
the tyrant, does he?"

"Oh! she stands that. Some of those absurd women like it, I think.
She's fussing about another girl."

"You wouldn't?"

"What man's worth it?"

"But, would you?"

"It depends upon the 'him,' monsieur.

"Depends upon his being very handsome!"