She lifted her eyebrows at him.

"Something has happened, Molly, I can see it in your face."

She was very brief. "Gracia Raglan has been conquered; the young man from
Boston has been foolish; and Mr. Vandewaters has lost millions."

"Eh? That's awkward," said Sir Duke.

"Which?" asked his wife.

Vandewaters found Mr. Pride in his bedroom, a waif of melancholy. He drew
a chair up, lighted a cigar, eyed the young man from head to foot, and
then said: "Pride, have you got any backbone? If you have, brace up. You
are ruined. That's about as mild as I can put it."

"You know all?"--said the young man helplessly, his hands clasped between
his knees in aesthetic agony.

"Yes; I know more than you do, as you will find out. You're a nice sort
of man, to come into a man's house, in a strange land, and make love to
his wife. Now, what do you think of yourself? You're a nice
representative of the American, aren't you?"

"I--I didn't mean any harm--I--couldn't help it," replied the stricken
boy.

"O, for God's sake, drop that bib-and-tucker twaddle! Couldn't help it!
Every scoundrel, too weak to face the consequences of his sin, says he
couldn't help it. So help me, Joseph, I'd like to thrash you. Couldn't