"All was not well, my dear fellow," was Dare's reply, as he gazed up at the ceiling. "All was peculiarly and damnably ill. Horsewhipping is a luxury far beyond my means," and he started blowing rings.
"But the summons——"
"Was withdrawn, true; but Fay was still alive alas! and with every 'tonic' she dispensed in the saloon-bar of 'The Belted Earl' she told of the noble way in which I had whipped Standish for her sake. That was Millie's doing. I could swear to it, she made Standish tell Fay that I did it because I was jealous of him and—oh, it was hell and chaos and forty publishers all rolled into one."
"But Fay?" I queried. "What of her?"
"She sent me perfumed notes (such vile perfume too) by the potman or chucker-out every other hour. Notes of adoration and of gratitude, in which the terms 'hero,' 'noble,' 'chivalrous,' with two v's, occurred at sickening intervals. I had to leave London for nearly a month, and it was at a time when I was busily engaged in a dispute with my publisher which necessitated my presence in town.
"Alas!" he concluded. "The tragedy of life is that it is always the wrong woman who appreciates a man's nobility."
"I never got no woman to appreciate my nobility wrong or right, sir," said Bindle, at the conclusion of the story.
"Well, you're a lucky man, J.B.," said Dare. "An old fogey who lived some three thousand years ago said one of the disadvantages of matrimony was that your wife insisted on taking her meals with you."
"Did 'e really, sir?" said Bindle, greatly interested. '"I should a' like to 'ave known 'im."
"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie, "I am afraid you are a misogynist."