“Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well⁠—the first time I met him in the street⁠—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!”

“Did he object?”

“Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is⁠—is⁠—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell⁠—and as for women⁠—”

“Well?” demanded Elliott.

“Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.”