man of forty, particularly one like myself, ugly and grey-haired, who had long before outworn the love of women.  In fact I had to laugh, one of those sad laughs that come to us with the years, at the thought of anything so absurd; and I soon got her to give up her tragic pose and see the humour of it all as I did.  So we treated it as a joke, rallied the old folks on their sentimental folly, and let it pass.

It set me thinking, however, a great deal about the girl and her future, and I managed to make interest with several of my friends and get her invited to some good houses.  Of course it was impossible to carry the old people into this galere.  They were frankly impossible, but fortunately so meek and humble that it never occurred to them to assert themselves or resent their daughter going to places where they would have been refused.  Uncle Gingersnaps would have paid money to stay at home, and Mrs. Grossensteck had too much homely pride to put herself in a false position.  They saw indeed only another reason to be grateful to me, and another example of my surpassing kindness.  Pretty, by no means a fool, and gowned by the best coutourieres of Paris, Teresa made quite a hit, and blossomed as girls do in the social sunshine.  The following year, in the whirl of a gay New York winter, one would scarcely have recognised her as the same person.  She had “made good,” as boys say, and had used my stepping-stones to carry her far beyond my ken.  In her widening interests, broader range, and increased worldly knowledge we became naturally better friends than ever and met on the common ground of those who led similar lives.  What man would not value the intimacy of a young, beautiful, and clever woman? in some ways it is better than love itself, for love is a duel, with wounds given and taken, and its pleasures dearly paid for.  Between Teresa and myself there was no such disturbing bond, and we were at liberty to be altogether frank in our intercourse.

One evening when I happened to be dining at the house, the absence of her father and the indisposition of her mother left us tete-a-tete in the smoking-room, whither she came to keep me company with my cigar.  I saw that she was restless and with something on her mind to tell me, but I was too old a stager to force a confidence, least of all a woman’s, and so I waited, said nothing, and blew smoke rings.

“Hugo,” she said, “there is something I wish to speak to you about.”

“I’ve known that for the last hour, Teresa,” I said.

“This is something serious,” she said, looking at me strangely.

“Blaze away,” I said.

“Hugo,” she broke out, “you have been borrowing money from my father.”

I nodded.

“A great deal of money,” she went on.

“For him—­no,” I said.  “For me—­well, yes.”

“Eight or nine hundred dollars,” she said.

“Those are about the figures,” I returned.  “Call it nine hundred.”