“Don’t be a pure priceless Ass, darling.  You are my own splendid hero—­and I am going to marry you, if I have to be a factory-girl or a coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you.  You want looking after, my own boy.  I shall have some money, though, when I am of age.  When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?”

“Lucille,” groaned the miserable man.  “Do you think that the sight of you in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier?  Can’t you realize that I’m ruined and done—­disgraced and smashed?  Lucille, I am not sane at times....  The SNAKE ... Do you love me, Lucille?  Then if so, I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to wait awhile and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome man—­who is neither a coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic.  Lucille, you double and treble my misery.  I can’t bear it if I see you.  Oh, why didn’t you forget me and do the right and proper thing?  I am unfit to touch you!  I am a damned scoundrel to be here now,” and leaping up he fled like a maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road, nor ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spot whereon he had suffered as he believed few men had done before.

And thus and thus we women live! 
With none to question, none to give
The Nay or Aye, the Aye or Nay
That might smoothe half our cares away. 
O, strange indeed!  And sad to know
We pitch too high and doing so,
Intent and eager not to fall,
We miss the low clear note of call. 
Why is it so?  Are we indeed
So like unto the shaken reed? 
Of such poor clay?  Such puny strength? 
That e’en throughout the breadth and length
Of purer vision’s stern domain
We bend to serve and serve in vain? 
To some, indeed, strange power is lent
To stand content.  Love, heaven-sent,
(For things or high or pure or rare)
Shows likest God, makes Life less bare. 
And, ever and anon there stray
In faint far-reaching virelay
The songs of angels, Heav’nward-found,
Of little children, earthward-bound.

A. L. WREN.

CHAPTER X.

MUCH ADO ABOUT ALMOST NOTHING—­A TROOPER.

Mr. Ormonde Delorme, Second Lieutenant of the 34th Lancers, sat in his quarters at Aldershot, reading and re-reading with mingled feelings a letter from the woman he loved.

It is one thing to extract a promise from The Woman that she will turn to you for help if ever your help should be needed (knowing that there could be no greater joy than to serve her at any cost whatsoever, though it led to death or ruin), but it is quite another thing when that help is invited for the benefit of the successful rival!

To go to the world’s end for Lucille were a very small matter to Ormonde Delorme—­but to go across the road for the man who had won her away, was not.