“This ‘tired’ me—to use an Americanism. ‘You came to me a month ago,’ I said, ‘raving over her, and talking about being the dirt under her feet and kissing her doorstep.’
“He turned very red. ‘I wish, my dear Mac,’ he said, ‘you would pay me the compliment of not mistaking me for that detestable little cad with whom I have the misfortune to be connected. You would greatly oblige me if next time he attempts to inflict upon you his vulgar drivel you would kindly kick him downstairs.’
“‘No doubt,’ he added, with a sneer, as we walked on, ‘Miss Trevior would be his ideal. She is exactly the type of woman, I should say, to charm that type of man. For myself, I do not appreciate the artistic and literary female.’
“‘Besides,’ he continued, in a deeper tone, ‘you know my feelings. I shall never care for any other woman but Elizabeth.’
“‘And she?’ I said
“‘She,’ he sighed, ‘is breaking her heart for Smith.’
“‘Why don’t you tell her you are Smith?’ I asked.
“‘I cannot,’ he replied, ‘not even to win her. Besides, she would not believe me.’
“We said good-night at the corner of Bond Street, and I did not see him again till one afternoon late in the following March, when I ran against him in Ludgate Circus. He was wearing his transition blue suit and bowler hat. I went up to him and took his arm.
“‘Which are you?’ I said.