all our many mental embarrassments, he failed to reconsider his beliefs in female virtue, although frequently pressed to do so by Mike.  Some personal animosity had grown out of their desire to convince each other.  Cooper had once even meditated Mike’s conversion, and Mike never missed an opportunity of telling some story which he deemed destructive of Cooper’s faith.  His faith was to him what a microscope is to a scientist, and it enabled him to discover the finest characteristics in the souls of bar-girls, chorus girls, and prostitutes; and even when he fell, and they fell, his belief in their virtue and the nobility of their womanly instincts remained unshaken.

Mike had just finished a most racy story concerning his first introduction to a certain countess.  Cooper had listened in silence, but when Mike turned at the end of his tale and asked him what he thought of his conduct, Cooper rose from his chair.

“I think you behaved like a blackguard.”

In a moment Mike was aware he had put himself in the wrong—­the story about the countess could not be told except to his destruction in any language except his own, and he must therefore forbear to strike Cooper and swallow the insult.

“You ass, get out; I can’t quarrel with you on such a subject.”

The embarrassment was increased by Cooper calling to Silk and asking if he were coming with him.  The prudent Silk felt that to stay was to signify his approval of Mike’s conduct in the case of the indiscreet countess.  To leave with Cooper was to write himself down a prig, expose himself to the sarcasm of several past masters in the art of gibing, and to make in addition several powerful enemies.  But the instinct not to compromise himself in any issue did not desert him, and rushing after Cooper he attempted the peace-maker.  He knew the attempt would mean no more than some hustling in the doorway, and some ineffectual protestation, and he returned a few minutes after to join in the ridicule heaped upon the unfortunate Cooper, and to vow inwardly that this was his last evening in Bohemia.

By the piano, smoking a clay pipe, there sat a large, rough, strong man.  His beard was bristly and flame-coloured, his face was crimson and pimply; lion-like locks hung in profusion about the collar of his shabby jacket.  His linen was torn and thin; crumpled was the necktie, and nearly untied, and the trousers were worn and frayed, and the boots heavy.  He looked as if he could have carried a trunk excellently well, but as that thought struck you your eyes fell upon his hands, which were the long, feminine-shaped hands generally found in those of naturally artistic temperament, nearly always in those who practise two or more of the arts.  Sands affected all the arts.  Enumerate:  He played snatches of Bach on the violin, on the piano, and on the organ; he composed fragments for all three instruments.  He painted little landscapes after (a long way after) the manner of