N hour has passed since the departure of Fisher; the crowd outside, after cheering each of the combatants down the street, has at last dispersed; the notice at the door informing all females of our patronage and assistance has been removed; the mission has become only a matter for the local historian, yet we two still linger over the office fire. Kate says little, but in her mind, it seems to me, there must be many thoughts. She has recovered her composure and reflections have had time to come. I, with surprising acumen and confidence, speculate on the nature of these. Disillusionment, the collapse of hopes, and the chilly thaw that leaves only the dripping and fast-vanishing remnants of ideals; these are surely what she feels. As I watch her, also saying little, her singular beauty grows upon me, and my heart goes out in sympathy for her troubles, till it is beating ominously fast. “Yes,” I say to myself, “this is more than Plato. I worship at the shrine of woman. No longer am I a sceptic!”

My sympathy can find no words; yet it must somehow take shape and reach this sorrowing divinity. I lay my hand upon hers and she—she lets me press her fingers silently, while a little smile begins to awake about the corners of her wilful mouth.

“Poor friend!” I exclaim, yet with gentle exclamation. “Yes, disillusionment is bitter!”

She gives her shoulders a shrug and her eye flashes into the fire.

“It is not that,” she replies. “It's being made a beastly fool of.”

For an instant I get a shock; but the spell of the moment and her beauty is too strong to be broken. It seems to me that I do but hear an evidence of her unconquerable spirit.

“You have a friend,” I whisper, “who can never think you a fool. To me you are the ideal, the queen of women. You may have lost your own ardent faith in woman through this luckless experiment, but you have converted me!”

At this she gives me such a smile that all timidity vanishes. “Kate!” I exclaim, and the next moment she is in my arms.

For a silent five minutes I enjoyed all the raptures that a beautiful woman and a rioting imagination can bestow. Picture Don Quixote embracing a Dulcinea who should really be as fair of face as his fancy painted her. Would not the poor man conceive himself in heaven even though she never understood a word of all his passion? For the moment I shared some of the virtues of that paladin with a fairer reason for my blindness. Her soft face lay against mine, the dark lashes hid her eyes, her form yielded to every pressure. What I said to her I cannot remember, even if I were inclined to confess it now; I only know that my sentiments were flying very high indeed, when suddenly she laughed. I stopped abruptly.

“Why do you laugh?” I asked.

She raised her head and opened her eyes and I saw that there was certainly no trace of sentiment in them.

“You are getting ridiculous,” she said. “Don't look so beastly serious!”

“Serious!” I gasped. “But—but what are you?”

She smiled at me again as kindly and provokingly as ever. But the veil of illusion was rent and it needed but another tear to pull it altogether from my eyes.

“You do not love me, then?” I asked, as calmly as I could.

“Love?” she smiled. “Don't be absurd!”

“Pardon!” I cried. “I see I have neglected my duties hitherto. I ought to have been kissing you all this time. That would have amused you better!”

Ah, I had roused her now, but to anger, not to love. She sprang back from me, her eyes flashing.

“You insult me!” she cried.

“Is it possible?” I asked, with a smile.

Her answer was brief, it was stormy, and it was not very flattering to myself; evidently she was genuinely indignant.

And I—yes, I was beginning to see the ordinary little bits of glass that had made so dazzling a kaleidoscope. I had been upbraiding Dulcinea with not being indeed the lady of Toboso; and that honest maiden was naturally incensed at my language.

I fear that in the polite apology I made her, I allowed this discovery to be too apparent. Again she was in arms, and this time with considerable dramatic effect.

“Oh, I know what you think!” she cried. “You think that because I don't make a fuss about you, I have no sentiments. If you were worth it you would see that I could be—”

She paused.

“What?” I asked.

With the privilege of woman, she slightly changed the line of argument.

“All men are alike,” she said, contemptuously.

“Then you have had similar experiences before?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a candor I could not help thinking was somewhat belated.

“In the Temple?” I asked.

“He made a fool of himself, just like you,” she retorted.

“Yet you assured me there was no one—”

“What business had you with my confidence?” she interrupted.

“I see,” I replied. “So you told what was not quite the truth? You were quite right; people are so apt to misunderstand these situations. In future I shall know better than to ask questions—because I shall be able to guess the answers. Good-bye.”

She replied with a distant farewell, and that was the end of a pretty charade.

I went away vowing that I should never think of her again; I lunched at the gayest restaurant to assist me in this resolution; I planned a series of consolations that should make oblivion amusing, even if not very edifying; yet early in the afternoon I found myself in her uncle's apartments, watching the old gentleman put the finishing touches to “A portrait from memory of Miss Kate Kerry.” That picture at least did not flatter! I had told him before of our ripening acquaintance and my engagement as secretary, and I think the General had enough martial spirit still left to divine the reason for my philanthropic ardor. To-day he quickly guessed that something unfortunate had happened.

“Had a row with Kate, eh?” he inquired.

“A row?” I said, endeavoring to put as humorous a face on it as possible. “General, I pulled a string, expecting warm water to flow, and instead I received a cold shower-bath.”

I fear I must have smiled somewhat sadly, for it was in a very kindly voice that the old gentleman replied:

“I know, mossoo; I know what it feels like. I remember my feelings when a certain lady gave me the congÉ, as you'd say, in '62—was it?—or '63. Long time ago now, anyhow, but I haven't forgotten it yet. Only time I ever screwed my courage up to the proposing point; found afterwards she'd been engaged to another man for two years. She might have told me, hang it!—but I haven't died of broken heart, mossoo. You'll get over it, never fear.”

“But it is not that she is engaged; it is not that she has repulsed me. She is your niece, General, but I fear her heart is of stone. She is a flirt, a—” In my heat I was getting carried away; I recalled myself in time, and added:

“Pardon; I forget myself, General.”

“I know, I know,” he replied. “I've felt the same about her myself, mossoo. She's a fine girl; good feelings and all the rest of it, but a little—er—unsatisfactory sometimes, I think. I've hoped for a little more myself now and then—a little—er—womanliness, and so on.”

“I cannot understand her,” I said. “I pictured her full of soul—and now!”

“I used to picture 'em full of soul, too,” said the General, “till I learned that a bright eye only meant it wasn't shut and that you could get as heavenly a smile by tickling 'em as any other way.”

“General!” I exclaimed. “Are you a cynic, then?”

“God forbid!” said the old boy, hastily. “I've seen too many good women for that. I only mean that you don't quite get the style of virtue you expect when you are—twenty-five, for instance. What you get in the best of 'em is a good wearing article, but not—er—the fancy piece of goods you imagine.”

“In a word,” I said, as I rose to leave him, “you ask for a pearl and you get a cheap but serviceable pebble.”

“Well, well,” he replied, good-humouredly, “we'll see what you say six weeks later.”

“I have learned my lesson,” I answered. “You will see that I shall remember it!”

The reader will also see, if his patience with the experimental philosopher and confident prophet is not yet quite exhausted.