"Never," said the major, darkly. "Never."

They were talking to pass the time. Joan Ferriby had come between them,
as a woman is bound to come between two men sooner or later. Neither
knew what the other thought of Joan Ferriby, or if he thought of her at
all. Women, it is to be believed, have a pleasant way of mentioning the
name of a man with such significance that one of their party changes
colour. When next she meets that man she does it again, and perhaps he
sees it, and perhaps his vanity, always on the alert, magnifies that
unfortunate blush. And they are married, and live unhappily ever
afterwards. And--let us hope there is a hell for gossips. But men are
different in their procedure. They are awkward and _gauche_. They talk
of newspaper matters, and on the whole there is less harm done.

The hansom cab containing these two men pulled up jerkily at the door
of No. 9, Cambridge Terrace. Tony Cornish hurried to the door, and rang
the bell as if he knew it well. Major White followed him stiffly. They
were ushered into a library on the ground floor, and were there
received by a young lady, who, pen in hand, sat at a large table
littered with newspaper wrappers.

"I am addressing the Haberdashers' Assistants," she said, "but I am
very glad to see you."

Miss Joan Ferriby was one of those happy persons who never know a
doubt. One must, it seems, be young to enjoy this nineteenth-century
immunity. One must be pretty--it is, at all events, better to be
pretty--and one must dress well. A little knowledge of the world, a
decisive way of stating what pass at the moment for facts, a quick