It is a painful thought to me to-night, that he
could wake up glorious once, this man in the el-
bow-chair by the fire, who is humorously known
at the club as a "confirmed spinster." I remember
him well when his years told four and twenty; on
my soul the proudest subaltern of my acquaintance,
and with the most reason to be proud. There was
nothing he might not do in the future, having
already done the biggest thing, this toddler up
club-steps to-day.

Not, indeed, that I am a knave; I am tolerably
kind, I believe, and most inoffensive, a gentleman,
I trust, even in the eyes of the ladies who smile at
me as we converse; they are an ever-increasing
number, or so it seems to me to-night. Ah, ladies,
I forget when I first began to notice that smile and
to be made uneasy by it. I think I understand it
now, and in some vague way it hurts me. I find
that I watch for it nowadays, but I hope I am still
your loyal, obedient servant.

You will scarcely credit it, but I have just re-
membered that I once had a fascinating smile of
my own. What has become of my smile? I
swear I have not noticed that it was gone till now;
I am like one who revisiting his school feels sud-
denly for his old knife. I first heard of my smile
from another boy, whose sisters had considered all
the smiles they knew and placed mine on top.
My friend was scornful, and I bribed him to men-

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