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from the nave to the chaps, and generally made a Grand Slam in Swords. Any one but a benighted Hindu would have declared Hearts and sent the girl across on a raft!

Bones. I don't see it, quite.

Bowley. Nor do I. It's the story, though.

Bones. I suppose devotion to one's profession is a form of Truth. But even if, as you say, it is often a question of courage and will, these are the very qualities which this truth telling stimulates. It's a V.C. touch to reply to a lady who asks how her hat suits "Not at all."

Bowley. It seems to me mere boorishness.

Bones. No! the lady is none the worse for the stab to her silly vanity; and though she may be angry or sulky, she will remember it in your favour when anything serious turns up.

Bowley. You dog! You devil! You Machiavellian satyr! On my word, sir—words fail me.

Bones. One thing more—it's the first truth that's difficult to tell; the habit is easily acquired.

Bowley. You know what an expert liar I have always been. You know my capacity for making a full and true confession of countless crimes without enlightening a soul. You know my shameless maxim, "Tell the truth, but lead so improbable a life that the truth will never be believed." To try your formula I must control not only my words, but my tones, the shape of my mouth, the mirth of my eyes, the ready ambiguity of my shoulders!

Bones. A good exercise, Frater.

Bowley. Another point. I am, after all, a Poet. That's right about the lake-reflected sun illuminating the blooming bees. I often hold long conversations with people, and discover long after that I wasn't there at all. I often dream and am honestly puzzled whether the events of it have or have not happened.

Bones. Consciously refuse to admit that your sensorium is not another's—that is all. About my second advantage—Brother, what is a Black Magician?