hand, he has often murdered men in his heart. It may have been in fiery
youth over the wrong name on a dancing card, or, later, when a rival
got the better of him in discussion, or, when the dreary bore came and
wouldn't go, or, when misdirected goodness insisted on thrusting upon
him intended kindness that was wormwood and poison to the soul. Are
we not covetous (not confessedly, of course, but actually)? Is not
covetousness the thwarted desire of theft without courage? How many
of us, now--speaking man to man--can open up our veiled thoughts and
desires and then look the Ten Commandments in the eye without blushing?

* * * * *

The bravest, noblest, gentlest gentleman I have ever known was the Count
de la Fere, whom we at the Hotel de Troisville, in old Paris, called
"Athos." He was not merely sans peur et sans reproche as Bayard, but was
positive in his virtues. He fought for his friends without even asking
the cause of the fray. Yet, what a prig he seemed to be at first, with
his eternal gentle melancholy, his irreproachable courtesy, unvarying
kindness and complete unselfishness. You cannot--quite--warm--to--a--
man--who --is--so--perfectly--right--that--he--embarrasses--everybody--
but--the--angels.

But, when he ordered the gloomy and awful death of the treacherous
Miladi, woman though she was, and thus as a perfect gentleman took on
human frailty also, ah! how attractively noble and strong he became I In
that respect he was the antithetical corollary of William Sykes, who was
a purposeless, useless and uninterestingly regular scoundrel, thief and
brute, until he redeemed himself by becoming the instrument of social
justice and pounding that unendurable lady, Miss Nancy, of his name,
into absence from the world. Perhaps I have remarked before--and even if