Mr. Burton adopted the air for his own use as soon as they were clear of Mrs. Dutton’s doorstep, and in good round terms demanded of Mr. Stiles what he meant by it.

“It was a difficult part to play, George,” responded his friend.  “We ought to have rehearsed it a bit.  I did the best I could.”

“Best you could?” stormed Mr. Burton.  “Telling lies and ordering me about?”

“I had to play the part without any preparation, George,” said the other, firmly.  “You got yourself into the difficulty by saying that I was the admiral in the first place.  I’ll do better next time we go.”

Mr. Burton, with a nasty scowl, said that there was not going to be any next time, but Mr. Stiles smiled as one having superior information.  Deaf first to hints and then to requests to seek his pleasure elsewhere, he stayed on, and Mr. Burton was soon brought to realise the difficulties which beset the path of the untruthful.

The very next visit introduced a fresh complication, it being evident to the most indifferent spectator that Mr. Stiles and the widow were getting on very friendly terms.  Glances of unmistakable tenderness passed between them, and on the occasion of the third visit Mr. Burton sat an amazed and scandalised spectator of a flirtation of the most pronounced description.  A despairing attempt on his part to lead the conversation into safer and, to his mind, more becoming channels only increased his discomfiture.  Neither of them took any notice of it, and a minute later Mr. Stiles called the widow a “saucy little baggage,” and said that she reminded him of the Duchess of Marford.

[Illustration:  “’Mr. Stiles called the widow a ‘saucy little baggage.’”]

“I used to think she was the most charming woman in England,” he said, meaningly.

Mrs. Dutton simpered and looked down; Mr. Stiles moved his chair a little closer to her, and then glanced thoughtfully at his friend.

“Burton,” he said.

“Sir,” snapped the other.

“Run back and fetch my pipe for me,” said Mr. Stiles.  “I left it on the mantelpiece.”

Mr. Burton hesitated, and, the widow happening to look away, shook his fist at his superior officer.

“Look sharp,” said Mr. Stiles, in a peremptory voice.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Burton, whose wits were being sharpened by misfortune, “but I broke it.”

“Broke it?” repeated the other.

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Burton.  “I knocked it on the floor and trod on it by accident; smashed it to powder.”

Mr. Stiles rated him roundly for his carelessness, and asked him whether he knew that it was a present from the Italian Ambassador.

“Burton was always a clumsy man,” he said, turning to the widow.  “He had the name for it when he was on the Destruction with me; ’Bungling Burton’ they called him.”

He divided the rest of the evening between flirting and recounting various anecdotes of Mr. Burton, none of which were at all flattering either to his intelligence or to his sobriety, and the victim, after one or two futile attempts at contradiction, sat in helpless wrath as he saw the infatuation of the widow.  They were barely clear of the house before his pent-up emotions fell in an avalanche of words on the faithless Mr. Stiles.