ve seen more than one such case."

Thornly shook himself, as if doubtful what he should reply to this man
who, above all else, in his own fashion, was trying to prove himself a
friend.

"Thank you again, Mr. Devant," he said at last haltingly; "I suppose all
men as old as you are sincere when they try to help us younger chaps by
knocking us senseless in an hour of danger. But it's better to let us
see and know the danger; we'll recognize it the next time. All I can say
is, that I have formed no plans for after to-morrow night! I've got to
get out into the open if I can. I rather imagine my art must satisfy me
in the future."

Devant went over to a desk between two bookcases, opened it, and took
something from a private drawer.

"What do you think of this?" he asked, handing Thornly an old
photograph.

"I should say,"--the younger man looked keenly at the picture,--"I
should say that it was an almost ideal face of a certain type."

"Of a certain type, yes." Devant came closer and leaned over his
companion's shoulder. "The coloring, of course, is lacking. I never saw
such glorious hair and eyes. The eyes gave promise of a nobility the
woman-nature utterly lacked. That girl, Dick, has wrecked my life!"

Thornly handed the photograph to Devant. He felt as if he were in some
way reading a private letter.

"Your life does not seem a wrecked life," he said confusedly. In a vague
way he wished to repress a confidence that he felt, once told, might
wield an influence over his own acts, and this his independence
resented. "You have always appeared a thoroughly contented, successful
man."

Devant laughed bitterly; then he idly placed the photograph in a book
and closed the covers upon the exquisite face. Thornly hoped that would
end the matter, but his companion was bent upon his course. He stretched
his feet toward the fire and looked into the heart of the glow, with
sad, brooding eyes.

"Happy!" he ejaculated, "happy! It is only youth that estimates
happiness by superficialities. A smile, a laugh, a full pocketbook! You
think they mean happiness?"

"They are often the outward expression."

"Or counterfeits. Have you ever read 'Peer Gynt,' Dick?"

"Yes. Ibsen has a gloomy charm for me. I read all he writes in about the
same way a child reads goblin tales. I enjoy the shivers."

"You remember the woman who gave Peer permission to marry the one pure
love of his life but stipulated that _she_ should forever sit bes