Harry had baffled Mrs. Wyburn for the time. He always dealt with his difficulties one by one as they cropped up, not en masse, and invariably in a manner that relieved the tension for a short time only—he rarely did anything radical.

His financial position was, however, growing rather serious, and occasionally the thought of Miss Walmer flitted through his mind.

To marry Miss Walmer would be far the quickest and simplest way out of his difficulties, and she would really be very little trouble, as little trouble, perhaps, as any wife could be. Besides, Harry had, with reason, great confidence in his own powers of dealing with women—getting whatever it was that he wanted from them, and afterwards preventing their being a nuisance. But he did not much like the idea of this mercenary marriage, because he was not in the least tired of his romance with Valentia, and saw great difficulties in the way of keeping it up later on. He had worrying doubts as to her consenting to revive it afterwards if he married.

Her grey eyes and soft fair hair with its dense waves held a lasting fascination for him. It has been well said that for each individual there exists in some other being some detail which he or she could find only in this particular person. It might be the merest trifle. Harry knew what it was in Val that had a specially compelling charm to him—it was the way her hair grew on her forehead. And there was something childlike in her expression that made a peculiar appeal to him. The power her face had over him was undiminished—it had begun seriously when he painted her portrait, and had grown gradually since then. And she was the only woman he had ever met whose affection for him did not cool his own enthusiasm. On the contrary, it was one of the things which held him to her most.

In a sense he was even loyal to her. Harry was not one of those extravagant Don Juans who made conquests solely for the gratification of their vanity by adding to their collection. Essentially cool and calculating, he used his attractiveness only when he thought it would be of some genuine value to him, or some real satisfaction. As a Lovelace he was economical.

Though a great connoisseur of feminine charm and beauty, and superficially susceptible and excitable, with all this, as many women knew, Harry was as hard as nails.

Valentia was the only woman for whom he had ever felt, besides the physical attraction, a kind of indulgent tenderness. This was partly, no doubt, because they had been fond of each other as children, and because of a racial sympathy, a sentiment de famille due to their relationship. But it was not really to be depended on.

No one could be a more charmingly devoted lover than Harry. There was no one like him for little attentions and inattentions, charming little thoughts, caressing words, and the little jealous scenes that women value. It was not the mere mechanically experienced love-making that women see through and to which they often prefer a clumsy sincerity. It was natural, spontaneous. He had, in fact, a genius for love-making, but he had not, like Romer, a genius for love. Harry had all the gift of expression—poor Romer had only the gift of feeling.

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 Luscombe—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 Luscombe, 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?"

"About twenty-three, or thirty-three. I like her, though she's rather a snob."

"Ah, they say all Americans are snobs, Harry, but I feel sure I'm not. Still, if I really liked a man I can't say I should turn against him even if he had a title."

"And if I really hated a person I should never get to like him, even if he had a bad reputation."

Van Buren looked surprised and impressed, also delighted.

"Is that a paradox, or an epigram, Harry?"

"I can't think!"

"Won't you tell me what it is?"

"It's bosh," said Harry impressively, "mere bosh!"

"Tell me what you really mean by it."

"How should I know? I haven't the very slightest idea," Harry said, stretching himself.

Van Buren looked thoughtfully out of the window.

"How do you suppose our ro-mances will end?"

"As badly as possible; romances always do," said Harry. "We ought to be only too thankful that they end at all."

"Why, I'm afraid you're a pessimist! How do you define a pessimist, Harry?"

"What a mania you have for definition, old chap! I think I agree with the little girl who said that an optimist is the man who looks after your eyes, and the pessimist the person who looks after your feet."

"Why, that's very subtle. I quite see what she means. There's a lot in that idea, Harry." He thought gravely.

"Is there? Well, come out to lunch."