A NECESSARY EVIL.
Julius Caesar; ii.—2.

At the St. Filipe Club, somewhere in the small hours of that same night, half-a-dozen members were lingering. One was at the piano, recalling snatches from various composers, the air being clouded alike with music and smoke wreaths.

"I think you fellows are hard on Fenton," the musician protested, in response to some remark of Ainsworth's. "I don't see what he's done to make you all so down on him."

"It isn't any thing that he has done," Tom Bently replied, "it is what he has become. He has developed an entirely new side of his nature, and a deucedly unpleasant one, too."

"I always had a mental reservation on Fenton," remarked another. "He was always insisting that his soul was his own, don't you know; and when a man keeps that up I always conclude that he has his private doubts on the subject; or if he hasn't, I have."

"That's about the case with all the musical rowing we've been having for the last year or two; every musician has been in a fever lest he should be thought to be truckling to somebody."

"What rubbish all this concert business is," remarked Tom. "In Boston a concert interests a little clique of people, and another bigger clique pretend to be interested. The nonsense that is talked about music here is nauseating. The public doesn't really care any thing about it. In Boston a concert is given in Music Hall; but in Paris it is given in the whole city. It is an event there, not a trifling incident."

"What do you know about music?" retorted the player, clashing a furious discord with his elbow as he turned towards the speaker. "I'll attend to you presently. Now I want to know about Fenton. What has he done that you are all blackguarding him?"

"I think he's got a creed," said Ainsworth, scowling and smiling together, according to his wont. "I hate to charge a man with any thing so black, but I think Fenton's wife has made him take a creed, and a pretty damned narrow one at that."

"By Jove!" the musician observed, solemnly. "It's too bad. Fenton is a mighty bright fellow, and no end obliging."

"If it's only a creed," swore Bently, "what's all this fuss about?
Every body has a creed, hasn't he? A man's temperament is his creed."

"It isn't his having a creed that I object to," remarked Grant Herman; "it is the question of his sincerity that troubles me. If he has taken up some collection of dogmas merely to please his wife—who seems a very sweet, quiet body—that is of course against him; but if he believes it, I don't see why we should object."

"Believes it!" sniffed Ainsworth, in great contempt. "That is worse than any thing I've said. I don't think Fenton is quite such an idiot as that comes to. The idea of his believing in Puritanism! Oh, good Lord!"

"Puritanism," Bently threw in irrelevantly, and because he liked the sound of it, "Puritanism is the preliminary rottenness of New England. If he is struck with that by all means let him go; the further the better."

"Isn't it his night for the Pagans this month?" somebody inquired.

"Yes," returned Bently, "but I took the liberty of going to him and asking if he would let me take it this turn. I hope you fellows don't mind." The talk thus flowed on in a desultory fashion amid ever thickening clouds of tobacco smoke, and Grant Herman, sitting for the most part quiet, had a whimsical idea in looking at his half-extinguished cigar. Certain excellent cigars, his thoughts ran, have a way of burning sluggishly about the middle, and without actually going out, yet need to be relighted; and in the same way a man's life goes on better for the kindling flame of a fresh attachment in middle life. He fell into reverie, thinking of Helen and of Ninitta. He had not seen the Italian since her flight, but from Mrs. Greyson he had learned the story of the finding and recovery of the fugitive; and his heart kindled with gratitude toward the woman who had prevented consequences which he should have fruitlessly regretted. He became so absorbed in his thoughts that only the entrance of Fred Rangely aroused him.

"Hallo, Rangely," the new comer was greeted, "where do you come from at this time of night?"

"Oh, from the office of the Daily Day-before-yesterday. I had an article in, and I wanted to read the proof. I can stand any thing in the world better than I can endure a compositor's blunders. Do any of you know Dr. Ashton?"

"I do," somebody answered. "What of him?"

"Rather clever fellow, wasn't he?"

"Why, yes; I think he is. He's rather odd sometimes. What about him?"

"Dead."

"Nonsense! I saw him myself not three hours ago, posting a letter in the box opposite his office."

"He is dead, though. Heart disease. They just got the news at the Advertiser office."

"Where was he?"

"In his office. The night porter of the building heard him fall against the door. They say he must have died without a struggle."