Lady Hortense, with her mother, the Duchess of Dare, had come down to Devon for the shooting one autumn, seeking rest after a strenuous social season following her presentation at court.  She had been there less than a week when she bagged the biggest game in the neighborhood.  The explanation was obvious:  the Lady Hortense had no faults to be discovered.  The closest inspection through two pairs of glasses, Percival’s and her own, failed to reveal a flaw.  Her birth and position were equal to his own; her beauty, if attenuated, was sufficient; while her discriminating taste amounted to a virtue.  The Honorable Percival proffered his hand, and was accepted.  Hascombe Hall rang with applause.

All might have been well had not mother and daughter been pressed to seal the compact by a closer intimacy in a ten-days’ visit at the hall.  The young people were allowed to bask uninterrupted in the light of each other’s perfections, and the result was disastrous.  Two persons who have achieved distinction as soloists do not take kindly to duets.  A few days after the Vevays’ return to London, Lady Hortense wrote a perfectly worded note, and asked to be released from the engagement.

The utterly preposterous fact that a Hascombe of Hascombe Hall had been jilted was too amazing a circumstance to be concealed, and the county buzzed with rumors.  The Honorable Percival, whose pride had sustained a compound fracture, set sail immediately for America.  After a hurried trip across the continent, he was embarking again, this time for Hong-Kong, where a sympathetic married sister held out embracing arms, and a promise of refuge from wagging tongues.

As he moved languidly down the deck and sank into the steamer-chair that bore his name, he assured himself for the fortieth time since leaving England that life bored him to tears.  He had sounded its joys and its sorrows, he had exhausted its thrills; it was like a scenic railway over which he was compelled to ride after every detail had become monotonously familiar.  There was nothing more for him to learn about life, nothing more for him to feel.  At least that is what the Honorable Percival thought.  But when one reckons too confidently on having exhausted the varieties of human experience, one is apt to get a jolt.

Carefully selecting a cigarette from a gold case, he struck a light, and, after a whiff or two, lay back and, closing his eyes on the stir and confusion, gave himself up to painful reflections.  His shrunken self-esteem, like a feathered thing exposed to wet weather, was clamoring for a sunny spot in which to expand to natural proportions.  Had he been able to remain at home, the unending chorus of feminine praise would soon have dried his draggled feathers and left him preening himself contentedly in the comforting assurance that Lady Hortense was in no way worthy of him.  But being confronted thus suddenly with the necessity of supplying his egotism with all its