But notwithstanding Harry's magnetism, a woman once disillusioned by him was disillusioned for ever. Women never forgave him. His romances generally ended suddenly, and always irrevocably.

Harry had no great love of truth in the abstract, but, at least, he never deceived himself. He saw through his own unscrupulousness, and rather despised it just as he despised his own work as a painter. He had grown really fond of Van Buren for the simple, sincere qualities in which Harry knew himself to be deficient; and the American's whole-hearted admiration--almost infatuation--for him gave Harry the pleasure one feels in the frank devotion of a child. It touched him, even while he intended to make use of it, because it was his nature to make use of everything. It is an infallible sign of the second-rate in nature and intellect to make use of everything and every one. The genius is incapable of making use of people. It is for the second-rate clever people to make use of him.

One morning Harry had heard unexpectedly that he had sold a picture--a thing that rarely happened--and was looking at the cheque he had received, when Van Buren came into the studio. Harry told the news.

"Well, Harry, I do congratulate you, with all my heart! What are you going to do with that?"

"Frame it," said Harry. "It's the only one I've had for three years.

It's a curiosity."

The American laughed.

"Harry, I guess what you're really going to do--you're going to give yourself the humble joy of paying some of the more pressing liabilities.

I know you!"

"My dear fellow, that would be mad extravagance! Oh no. You see, this cheque is--just enough to be no earthly use."

Van Buren sat down.

"Harry, if you'd only let me.... But I know that vexes you, so I won't talk of it. You're Quixotic, that's what's the matter with you." He smiled, pleased with the word. "Yes, Quixotic! I want to speak to you about your cousin--I mean Miss Daphne, the beauteous broo-nette."

"Well, how do you think you're getting on?" asked Harry, who already knew from Valentia that it was hopeless.

"Not as well as I should like, Harry. I can't say I feel I'm making any very great progress. She's a dream, but I'm afraid she regards me as a heavy-weight. She's only a child, really, I know. She would prefer a little boy of her own age who would make her laugh. Maybe she thinks I'm too old. What do you say?"

"You must give her time."

"I pay her every little attention that I can," said Van Buren seriously.

"Perhaps you're too attentive."

"I'd give her anything in the world she wanted, Harry, if she'd let me."

"Well, give her a miss for safety."

"What's that?"

"Why--this evening you're going to meet her at a dance, aren't you--at the Walmers'?"

"Yes; I'm looking forward to that."

"Well, don't go--don't turn up. Then she'll miss you. Say, to-morrow, you were prevented."

Van Buren began to smile.

"I see what you mean. It's an idea. You do hand me some good advice! Is it what you would do yourself, Harry?"

"It's what I'm always doing."

"But then I don't like the idea of being rude. One always wants to give the impression of being well-bred, no matter what the facts maybe."

"It won't be rude. She'll be thinking about you much more than if you were there, wondering why you're not."

"You mean it will keep her guessing, Harry?"

"That's the idea. I shan't say you're not coming. I'll pretend to be expecting you too."

"Well, perhaps I'll try that. I know I've only got an outside chance.

She counts me as one of the also-rans."

"Are you really very devoted, old chap? Would you break your heart if it didn't come off?"

Van Buren thought a moment, then said with his scrupulous truthfulness--

"Well, no: I can hardly say that, Harry. I'm not so far gone as all that. But I think she's a very beautiful, charming, well-brought-up young lady--a typical English girl--a June rose, a real peach. She's the ideal of the sort of girl I'd like to marry. But if she's out of my reach--well, I should resign myself."

"Would you try for some one else? There are probably about a million girls just like that, you know, who would be only too delighted."

Van Buren shook his head.

"She's the only girl I should care about marrying. If it doesn't come off I shall go back to New York. And I do wish you'd come with me. A fellow with your talents would do splendidly there. Why, I'd find you a place in the Bank in New York. I'd see you made your fortune pretty quick. But you'd never leave London."

"I'm not so sure. Anyway, we'll give it a chance till the autumn."

"Yes, I must see it to a finish."

"If you don't settle down here, then, would you marry an American girl?"

"No. In that case I shan't marry at all. I shall settle down to the life of a lonely bachelor--choose the broad and easy path that leads to single misery, Harry." He laughed.

"Instead of the straight and narrow road that leads to married unhappiness," said Harry. "So you _are_ very keen on Daphne?"

"Not exactly that, perhaps. But it must be her or no one for a life-partner. She's the only girl who ever made any appeal to me from the point of view of domestic life. When I think of a happy home and a fireside with her, it makes me curl like an autumn leaf."

"What a curious chap you are," said Harry, smiling.

"See here," said Van Buren, taking a letter out of his pocket. "I've got a letter from a lady--it's signed Flora Lus...o...b..--but I don't seem to remember anything about her."

Harry took the letter. It was written on mauve paper in a somewhat straggling hand, and was dated from "Dimsdale Mansions, St. Stephen's Road, North Kensington." It was a pathetic, yet cheery invitation to tea.

"It's Miss Lus...o...b.., of the Tank, as we call it," said Harry.

"Oh, the actress? Well, I think I shall go, Harry. I've never had the opportunity of mixing much in dramatic circles. It's real kind of her to have asked me, I must say. I didn't even remember her."

"No one ever remembers her. But it's amusing and absurd. You'll meet some of the people you like. Flora will show you round--point out all the obscurities there, and so forth. Oh, she's a good soul--old Flora."

"Is she old, Harry?"