an unrequited affection. And these, for some reason or other, never seemed to come my way.
One morning I was engaged with Collins, my servant, in putting some slight final touches to my toilette, when my two friends, Freddy Thompson and Claude de Verney, walked into my room.
They were at school with me, and I am fond of them both, for different reasons. Freddy is in the Army; he is two-and-twenty, brusque, slangy, tender-hearted, and devoted to me. De Verney has nothing to do with this story at all, but I may mention that he was noted for his rosy cheeks, his collection of jewels, his reputation for having formerly taken morphia, his epicurism, his passion for private theatricals, and his extraordinary touchiness. One never knew what he would take offence at. He was always being hurt, and writing letters beginning: "Dear Mr. Carington" or "Dear Sir"—(he usually called me Cecil), "I believe it is customary when a gentleman dines at your table," etc.
I never took the slightest notice, and then he would apologise. He was always begging my pardon and always thanking me, though I never did anything at all to deserve either his anger or gratitude.
"Hallo, old chap," Freddy exclaimed, "you look rather down in the mouth. What's the row?"
"I am enamoured of Sorrow," I said, with a sigh.
"Got the hump eh?—Poor old boy. Well, I can't help being cheery, all the same. I've got some ripping news to tell you."
"Collins," I said, "take away this eau-de-cologne. It's corked. Now, Freddy," as the servant left the room, "your news.""I'm
