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"John," said Marian to me, a suspicion of the truth crossing her mind, "John, can it be the bicycle man?" "Yes, it can be," I said; "it is." "Well," said Marian, "he's been doing a little more for our friend than we did." Nor was this the last we heard of that meteoric trip through England, which the alleged author of The Sybarites had indulged in. He did not go up to London; not he.

I saw with a wicked delight that the shot had told, for the Celebrity blushed to the roots of his hair, while Miss Trevor dropped three or four stitches. "I do not see how you can expect men to like 'The Sybarites'," she said, with some heat; "very few men realize or care to realize what a small chance the average woman has.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Thorn, and she drew her lips together, "pure nonsense!" "Nonsense or not, Marian," Mr. Cooke interposed, "we are wasting valuable time. The police are already on the scent, I'll bet my hat." "Fenelon!" Mrs. Cooke remonstrated. "And do you mean to say in soberness, Uncle Fenelon, that you believe the author of The Sybarites to be a defaulter?" said Miss Thorn.

Fifty-eight years afterward, aided by some Thessalians, the exiled Sybarites again sought possession of their former settlement, but were speedily expelled by the Crotoniates. It was now that they applied to Sparta and Athens for assistance. The former state had neither population to spare, nor commerce to strengthen, nor ambition to gratify, and rejected the overtures of the Sybarite envoys.

"Yes, sir; he wrote The Sybarites, and all the rest of that trash." "He's the fellow that maintains a man ought to marry a girl after he has become engaged to her." "Exactly," I said, smiling at his way of putting it. "Preaches constancy to all men, but doesn't object to stealing." I laughed. "You're badly mixed," I explained. "I told you he never stole anything.

"I can't say that I do; that is, nothing but what he has told me." "If you will forgive my curiosity," I said, "what has he told you?" "He says he is the author of The Sybarites," she answered, her lip curling, "but of course I do not believe that, now." "But that happens to be true," I said, smiling. She clapped her hands.

These sayings and the thought of the author of The Sybarites stifling below with his mouth to an auger-hole kept us in a continual state of merriment. And at last our visitor rose to go. As he was stepping over the side, Mr. Cooke laid hold of a brass button and pressed a handful of the black cigars upon him. "My regards to the detective, old man," said he. McCann stared.

These men, who, in the frightful light of their own misdeeds, appear to us as complete demons or complete madmen, have yet much that is amiable and much that is sane; they stickle at no abominable lust, yet they are no bestial sybarites; they are brave, sober, frugal, enduring like any puritan; they are treacherous, rapacious, cruel, utterly indifferent to the sufferings of their enemies, yet they are gentle in manner, passionately fond of letters and art, superb in their works of public utility, and not incapable of genuinely admiring men of pure life like Bernardino or Savonarola: they are often, strange to say, like the frightful Baglionis of Perugia, passionately admired and loved by their countrymen.

In sharpest contrast to these strivings stands the aim of those old monks who scorned the body as a mere encumbrance, seeking spiritual enlightenment and things not of this earth. And now, Sybarites and Basileans alike in ruins! A man of to-day, asked which of the two civilizations he would wish restored, would not hesitate long in deciding for the Hellenic one.

"Who would have thought," she persisted, "that the author of The Sybarites, the man who chose Desmond for a hero, could play thus idly with the heart of woman? The man who wrote these beautiful lines: 'Inconstancy in a woman, because of the present social conditions, is sometimes pardonable.