her one of these girls would wish you
harm?"

"None whatever," began Sidney vehemently; and then, checking
herself,--"unless--but that's rather ridiculous."

"What is ridiculous?"

"I've sometimes thought that Carlotta--but I am sure she is perfectly
fair with me. Even if she--if she--"

"Yes?"

"Even if she likes Dr. Wilson, I don't believe--Why, K., she wouldn't!
It would be murder."

"Murder, of course," said K., "in intention, anyhow. Of course she
didn't do it. I'm only trying to find out whose mistake it was."

Soon after that she said good-night and went out. She turned in the
doorway and smiled tremulously back at him.

"You have done me a lot of good. You almost make me believe in myself."

"That's because I believe in you."

With a quick movement that was one of her charms, Sidney suddenly closed
the door and slipped back into the room. K., hearing the door close,
thought she had gone, and dropped heavily into a chair.

"My best friend in all the world!" said Sidney suddenly from behind him,
and, bending over, she kissed him on the cheek.

The next instant the door had closed behind her, and K. was left alone
to such wretchedness and bliss as the evening had brought him.

On toward morning, Harriet, who slept but restlessly in her towel,
wakened to the glare of his light over the transom.

"K.!" she called pettishly from her door. "I wish you wouldn't go to
sleep and let your light burn!"

K., surmising the towel and cold cream, had the tact not to open his
door.

"I am not asleep, Harriet, and I am sorry about the light. It's going
out now."

Before he extinguished the light, he walked over to the old dresser and
surveyed himself in the glass. Two nights without sleep and much anxiety
had told on him. He looked old, haggard; infinitely tired. Mentally he
compared himself with Wilson, flushed with success, erect, triumphant,
almost insolent. Nothing had more certainly told him the hopelessness
of his love for Sidney than her good-night kiss. He was her brother, her
friend. He would never be her lover. He drew a long breath and proceeded
to undress in the dark.

Joe Drummond came to see Sidney the next day. She would have avoided
him if she could, but Mimi had ushered him up to the sewing-room boudoir
before she had time to escape. She had not seen the boy for two months,
and the change in him startled her. He was thinner, rather hectic,
scrupulously well dressed.

"Why, Joe!" she said