“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know⁠—my ideas are rather straitlaced⁠—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality⁠—“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because⁠—because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.”

After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine⁠—”

“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!”

“Why⁠—”

“No⁠—not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist⁠—promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”