n favor of Richey and had
gone cheerfully on my way, elevated by my heroic sacrifice to a somber,
white-hot martyrdom. As is often the case, McKnight's first words showed
our parallel lines of thought.

"I say, Lollie," he asked, "do you remember Dorothy Browne?" Browne,
that was it!

"Dorothy Browne?" I repeated. "Oh--why yes, I recall her now. Why?"

"Nothing," he said. "I was thinking about her. That's all. You remember
you were crazy about her, and dropped back because she preferred me."

"I got out," I said with dignity, "because you declared you would shoot
yourself if she didn't go with you to something or other!"

"Oh, why yes, I recall now!" he mimicked. He tossed his cigarette in
the general direction of the hearth and got up. We were both a little
conscious, and he stood with his back to me, fingering a Japanese vase
on the mantel.

"I was thinking," he began, turning the vase around, "that, if you feel
pretty well again, and--and ready to take hold, that I should like to go
away for a week or so. Things are fairly well cleaned up at the office."

"Do you mean--you are going to Richmond?" I asked, after a scarcely
perceptible pause. He turned and faced me, with his hands thrust in his
pockets.

"No. That's off, Lollie. The Sieberts are going for a week's cruise
along the coast. I--the hot weather has played hob with me and the
cruise means seven days' breeze and bridge."

I lighted a cigarette and offered him the box, but he refused. He was
looking haggard and suddenly tired. I could not think of anything to
say, and neither could he, evidently. The matter between us lay too deep
for speech.

"How's Candida?" he asked.

"Martin says a month, and she will be all right," I returned, in the
same tone. He picked up his hat, but he had something more to say. He
blurted it out, finally, half way to the door.

"The Seiberts are not going for a couple of days," he said, "and if you
want a day or so off to go down to Richmond yourself--"

"Perhaps I shall," I returned, as indifferently as I could. "Not going
yet, are you?"

"Yes. It is late." He drew in his breath as if he had something more
to say, but the impulse passed. "Well, good night," he said from the
doorway.

"Good night, old man."

The next moment the outer door slammed and I heard the engine of the
Cannonball throbbing in the street. Then the quiet settled down around
me again, and there in the lamplight I dreamed dreams. I was going t