with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling and tapping his
spurred heels with his riding-whip.

"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic; milk and
curds, you know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say 'haeow' and 'I don't
think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm nearly dead for a square
meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"

"There is none," I replied pleasantly. "I saw your regiment coming in this
morning."

"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"

"In Mr. Wilde's window."

"Oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I don't
understand why you--"

He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon.

"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a man you like,
but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find in common with
Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he is hideously
deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person. You know
yourself he's been in an asylum--"

"So have I," I interrupted calmly.

Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and
slapped me heartily on the shoulder. "You were completely cured," he