class="pnext">Arriving in the capital, Roman drew up before the "Oaza" a place where people drank champagne at exorbitant prices and listened to dubious songs and patter, not bereft of wit, but suited for neither the young nor the squeamish. It stood at the corner of the Theatre Square, where the Opera House is, and the Vierzbova, that narrow street which runs thence from the Saxon Square. Ian seldom went to the haunt; but Roman knew every woman in it. One, with little on but a feather boa and a gigantic hat, was screaming a new song at the top of her voice. The audience was meager enough, for the races were over, the heat had set in, and people of pleasure had gone to their country homes, or abroad to drink the waters at Carlsbad and other places where those who live too well hope to patch up battered constitutions for future pleasures. There were a few Russian officers, who made a great deal of noise, a couple of Polish squires, sunburnt and opulent, some of the inevitable Children of Israel, of those who no longer keep the Sabbath nor believe in anybody's God; and many sirens in marvelous hats and plentiful paint.

Roman ordered the supper and drank freely of champagne. He took not the least notice of the entertainment, which went on just above their table, on a small raised platform. Ian wondered why he insisted on being so near it; but to-night he was prepared to give in about everything, as to a spoilt child who has broken its favorite toy. Roman drank, ate and talked, smoking cigarettes all the time.

"What does she see in him? Tell me what she sees in him?" he asked, elbows on the table, cigarette between his lips, glaring with his dark bright eyes at his cousin. "Now--if it had been you..."

Ian became ruddier than ever and bent over his plate. He said nothing.

"I thought of you as my rival," pursued the disappointed lover. "A dangerous one, too."

"You needn't have," mumbled Ian, his mouth full of lobster mayonnaise.

"I see that now. But I feared it. You've always been together. It seemed the obvious thing for you to make a match of it. Why, there were bets on you at the club here."

"The devil there were!" cried Ian indignantly.

"Well, we all do that sort of thing. Their gossip worried me. I can't think how you managed not to fall in love with her. I'd have been in love with any woman under the circumstances, let alone her ... why, she's an angel, an..."

He broke off and fumed in silence for some time. Ian finished his lobster and attacked some cold meat. Roman looked as if he expected some remark, so he gave it, huskily:

"The obvious never happens."

"But Joe never came into my head. You could have knocked me down with a feather when she owned it."

"Me, too," admitted Ian, with more sincerity than he had yet commanded.

"I don't wonder. Of course, I'm a rip. Not worse than most of my fellows. I don't count you.... Can't make you out. You must be a fish." He cast a glance round the room, nodded to a couple of women, signed that he did not want them at his table, ordered a bottle of champagne to be taken over to them, shifted his chair so that his back was towards them, and went on:

"Who isn't? I've had my fling. I was quite ready to settle down. This sort of game disgusts me. I've had enough of it."

"I don't wonder."

"I suppose you people at Ruvno think Joe's a steady old horse," retorted Roman vehemently. "He enjoys life, too. Only he's more careful of appearance than I am."

"Prig!" said Ian savagely.

Roman laughed at the tone. His dark eyes were very bright. These, with his fine head, broad shoulders and open hand, suggested other, less prosaic days, when men gave fuller play to their emotions, and were not ashamed of their feelings. He produced a hundred-rouble note from one of his fat pocket-books and sent it across to the little orchestra.

"Tell them to play my favorites," he told the waiter.

"Don't be a fool," admonished his more careful cousin. "You'll be glad enough of your money before you've done with the Jews." He knew Roman's reckless ways; and disapproved of them. A man nearing thirty had no right to lead the sort of life that concentrated at the Oaza between midnight and sunrise. The place was stuffy and gaudy and depressing. He began to feel sorry he had come.

"The devil take my debts," said Roman. "The Jews can wait now." Then he went back to Vanda.

"Do you imagine that Joe's in love with her?" he exclaimed. "Not a bit. He wants to settle down, doesn't need money and thinks her suitable. I loathe that word. It sums up all the hypocrisy of our lives." He gulped champagne, wiped his mustache, threw the napkin on the table, and pursued:

"He thinks she'll look well at the head of his table. And it saves trouble to marry her because he's known her all his life. He hasn't got to waste time paying her attention and risk the publicity of a refusal. You can't go near a girl at the races or a dance but everybody knows it. That's not old Joe's plan. He's too safe."

Ian bent over his plate again. Roman had too much insight; he was attributing to Joe the very thoughts that had passed through his own mind that morning. But the words gave him comfort. If Joe was not in love with Vanda, neither was he. Their symptoms were alike. Men in love talked like Roman, acted like him. So he was saved. His precious armor of male vanity was intact. Thank God, he could face himself and his little world again.

"If I thought she'd be really happy, I'd not care so much," remarked Roman after a short silence.

His cousin looked up in alarm.

"If I doubted it I'd never let him marry her," he muttered.

"What can you do? She's set her heart on him. I don't mean he's going to ill-treat her. He'll be so proud of her that he'll hang on to her till she'll long to be left alone a bit. But she'll find him a bore after a time. She's not used to bores. God! If I had to live with old Joe I'd blow my brains out."

And he talked on; he had the philosophy of life at his tongue's tip; and yet what a muddle he made of his own! He reminded Ian of agricultural experts he knew, drawn from the ranks of ruined landed proprietors, yet ready to give advice to those who prosper on their acres. Gradually, he ceased to pay heed to the flow of words. He was an early riser and his bedtime hour had long passed. And he followed his own train of thought, nodding occasionally at his cousin's eloquence, and trying to get him out of the place.

"The essence of real love," remarked the oracle, as they left for the Hotel Europe at last, "is sacrifice. A man who's not ready for that is no lover."

And again Ian felt comforted.

He stopped two days in town, saw his lawyer anent Vanda's dowry, looked at sables, bought her a diamond pendant, and prepared to leave his cousin. This last much against his will. With his old impetuosity, he was playing heavily at his club, where a few gamblers lingered,