The woman worries me.  I find myself speculating on her character while I ought to be minding my affairs; and this I do on her own account, without any reference to my undertaking to rescue Dale from her clutches.  Her obvious attributes are lazy good nature and swift intuition, which are as contrary as her tastes in tobacco and tea; but beyond the obvious lurks a mysterious animal power which repels and attracts.  Were not her expressions rather melancholy than sensuous, rather benevolent than cruel, one might take her as a model for Queen Berenice or the estimable lady monarchs who yielded themselves adorably to a gentleman’s kisses in the evening and saw to it that his head was nicely chopped off in the morning.  I can quite understand Dale’s infatuation.  She may be as worthless as you please, but she is by no means the vulgar syren I was led to expect.  I wish she were.  My task would be easier.  Why hasn’t he fallen in love with one of the chorus whom his congeners take out to supper?  He is an aggravating fellow.

I have declined to discuss her merits or demerits with him.  I could scarcely do that with dignity, said I; a remark which seemed to impress him with a sense of my honesty.  I asked what were his intentions regarding her.  I discovered that they were still indefinite.  In his exalted moments he talked of marriage.

“But what has become of her husband?” I inquired, drawing a bow at a venture.

“I suppose he’s dead,” said Dale.

“But suppose he isn’t?”

He informed me in his young magnificence that Lola and himself would be above foolish moral conventions.

“Indeed?” said I.

“Don’t pretend to be a Puritan,” said he.

“I don’t pretend to like the idea, anyhow,” I remarked.

He shrugged his shoulders.  It was not the time for a lecture on morality.

“How do you know that the lady returns your passion?” I asked, watching him narrowly.

He grew red.  “Is that a fair question?”

“Yes,” said I.  “You invited me to call on her and judge the affair for myself.  I’m doing it.  How far have things gone up to now?”

He flashed round on me.  Did I mean to insinuate that there was anything wrong?  There wasn’t.  How could I dream of such a thing?  He was vastly indignant.

“Well, my dear boy,” said I, “you’ve just this minute been scoffing at foolish moral conventions.  If you want to know my opinion,” I continued, after a pause, “it is this—­she doesn’t care a scrap for you.”

Of course I was talking nonsense.

I did not condescend to argue.  Neither did I dwell upon the fact that her affection had not reached the point of informing him whether she had a husband, and if so, whether he was alive or dead.  This gives me an idea.  Suppose I can prove to him beyond a shadow of doubt that the lady, although flattered by the devotion of a handsome young fellow of birth and breeding, does not, as I remarked, care a scrap