Amid the whirl of rout, and ball, and picnic, race-meeting, polo-match, and what-not, Paul Howard Alexis stalked misunderstood, distrusted; an object of ridicule to some, of pity to others, of impatience to all.  A man, if it please you, with a purpose—­a purpose at the latter end of the nineteenth century, when most of us, having decided that there is no future, take it upon ourselves to despise the present.

Paul soon discovered that he was found out—­at no time a pleasant condition of things, except, indeed, when callers are about.  That which Eton and Cambridge had failed to lay their fingers upon, every match-making mother had found out for herself in a week.  That the discovery had been carefully kept in each maternal breast, it is needless to relate.  Ces dames are not confidential upon such matters between themselves.  When they have scented their game they stalk him, and if possible bag him in a feline solitude which has no fears for stout, ambitious hearts.  The fear is that some other prowling mother of an eligible maiden may hit upon the same scent.

Paul was invited to quiet dinners and a little music, to quiet dinners without the music, to a very little music and no dinner whatever.  The number of ladies who had a seat in a box thrown upon their hands at the last minute—­a seat next to Angelina in her new pink, or Blanche in her sweet poult de soie—­the number of these ladies one can only say was singular, because politeness forbids one to suggest that it was suspicious.  Soft cheeks became rosy at his approach—­partly, perhaps, because soft and dainty toes in satin slippers were trodden upon with maternal emphasis at that moment.  Soft eyes looked love into eyes that, alas! only returned preoccupation.  There was always room on an engagement card for Paul’s name.  There was always space in the smallest drawing-room for Paul’s person, vast though the latter was.  There was—­fond mothers conveyed it to him subtly after supper and champagne—­an aching void in more than one maiden heart which was his exact fit.

But Paul was at once too simple and too clever for matron and maid alike.  Too simple, because he failed to understand the inner meaning of many pleasant things that the guileless fair one said to him.  Too clever, because he met the subtle matron with the only arm she feared, a perfect honesty.  And when at last he obtained his answer from the coy and hesitating Etta, there was no gossip in London who could put forward a just cause or impediment.

Etta gave him the answer one evening at the house of a mutual friend, where a multitude of guests had assembled ostensibly to hear certain celebrated singers, apparently to whisper recriminations on their entertainer’s champagne.  It was a dull business—­except, indeed, for Paul Howard Alexis.  As for the lady—­the only lady his honest, simple world contained—­who shall say?  Inwardly she may have been in trembling, coy alarm, in breathless, blushing hesitation.