her desk, which was still open, as if she had taken something from it as an afterthought. There were letters and papers there, some of his own and some in Captain Pinckney’s handwriting. It did not occur to him to look at them —- even to justify himself, or excuse her. He knew that his hatred of Captain Pinckney was not so much that he believed him her lover, as his sudden con- viction that she was like him! He was the male of her species ---a being antagonistic to himself, whom he could fight, and crush, and revenge himself upon. But most of all he loathed his past, not on account of her, but of his own weakness that had made him her dupe and a misunderstood man to his

friends. He had been derelict of duty in '

his unselfish devotion to her; he had stifled his ambition, and underrated his own pos- sibilities. No wonder that others had ac- cepted him at his own valuation. Clarence Brant was a modest man, but the egotism of modesty is more fatal than that of preten- sion. for it has the haunting consciousness of superior virtue.

He reéntered his own room and again threw himself into his chair. His calm ‘was being succeeded by a physical weariness; he